


Astronomy in Reverse

by PunkZucchini, sicklekind



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alien Biology, Alien Cultural Differences, Alternate Universe - No Sburb/Sgrub Sessions, Child Abuse, Friends to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, Illustrated, Intergalactic Pen Pals, Internalized Homophobia, Language Barrier, M/M, Pen Pals, Pesterlog
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-24
Updated: 2017-07-13
Packaged: 2018-03-31 19:17:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 40,178
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3989635
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PunkZucchini/pseuds/PunkZucchini, https://archiveofourown.org/users/sicklekind/pseuds/sicklekind
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dave and Karkat are intergalactic pen pals, originally paired together for an extra credit school outreach project. Now, three years of correspondence later, they're best friends... and Karkat is finally immigrating to Earth.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This AU was originally created by the brilliant mind of [schntgaispocks](http://vulcankisses.co.vu/) and facilitated by [daveactualstrider](http://daveactualstrider.tumblr.com/post/119553687814/omg-au-where-dave-and-karkat-become-integalactic). It is now being written by me (sicklekind) and beta'd (read: whipped into shape) by the lovely [punkzucchini](http://archiveofourown.org/users/PunkZucchini/pseuds/PunkZucchini). I have no update schedule planned right now because of school but I'm going to try my best to update it often!
> 
> Title taken from [my favorite song in the whole world.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EFTs2K8rOTs)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where it all begins.

\--carcinoGeneticist [CG]  began pestering turntechGodhead  [TG]\--

CG: ATTENTION, WORTHLESS HUMAN.

CG: THIS IS YOUR GOD SPEAKING.

CG: I AM A WRATHFUL GOD WHO DESPISES THIS ASSIGNMENT MORE THAN YOU COULD HAVE POSSIBLY DARED.

CG: I HAVE WATCHED MY GRADE PLUMMET, WATCHED MY SCHOOLFEEDMATES TREMBLE IN FEAR AND SHAME AS THE END OF THE SWEEP APPROACHES.

CG: THERE WILL BE NO HEARTFELT EXCHANGES IN STORE FOR YOU, HUMAN, ONLY THE MOST CLINICAL AND ACADEMICALLY-BENEFICIAL OF CONVERSATIONS.

CG: MY PRESENCE WILL BE THE SINGLE DECIDING FACTOR IN OUR ACADEMIC SUCCESS.

CG: MY WORDS ARE MY GIFT TO YOU, YOU PIECE OF SHIT.

CG: YOU’RE FUCKING WELCOME.

TG: quick question: is this gift returnable? like can i get a gift receipt or something

TG: at the very least please tell me its refundable

TG: like yeah sorry teach but could i just get extra credit for trying? because my randomly assigned alien penpal turned out to be a pompous windbag with a god complex and a terrifyingly firm grasp on english as a second language

TG: i mean im pretty sure the point of this entire assignment was to give you an opportunity to practice your english but it looks like youve already got that covered

TG: …

TG: for someone who was drowning me in words two seconds ago you sure are quiet now

TG: what gives spacebro

CG: UH

CG: PLEASE GIVE ME A COUPLE MINUTES.

CG: I HAVE TO LOOK SOME WORDS UP.

TG: oh my god

TG: i knew something was seriously fishy when it didnt say you were typing

TG: did you write that entire speech out beforehand

TG: maybe have it proofread by your teacher

CG: NO!

TG: holy shit you totally did thats fucking hilarious

TG: jokes on me though for blaming your lack of a typing notification on incompatible alien biotechnology when in reality you were just copy/pasting an entirely original copypasta

CG: YOU WERE PRESENT FROM THE START?

TG: yeah and i cant believe you drafted yourself an entire god damn script just to introduce yourself to your new intergalactic penpal

CG: SHUT UP.

TG: what no way ive gotta introduce myself

CG: ALSO, STOP USING SO MANY BIG WORDS.

TG: you went on your spiel so now its my turn

TG: ill keep the big words to a minimum though since im culturally sensitive like that

TG: the names dave strider and im gonna be your pen pal

TG: im fifteen years old and my interests include neglecting to do my social studies homework spinning some seriously sick beats sword fighting with my bro taking photos and collecting dead things in jars

CG: ARE YOU ALWAYS THIS WORDY?

TG: okay now thats just a straight up case of the pot calling the kettle black

CG: I AM GOING TO PRETEND I UNDERSTOOD THAT IDIOM.

CG: MY NAME IS KARKAT VANTAS. I LIVE ON A PLANET NAMED ALTERNIA. I AM REGRETTING THIS ASSIGNMENT ALREADY.

CG: I AM SEVEN SWEEPS OLD. THAT IS FIFTEEN IN EARTH YEARS. I LIKE MOVIES. MY FAVORITE COLOR IS GRAY.

CG: I AM YOUR NEW PEN PAL.

TG: well shit dude 

TG: im excited already 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Three years of correspondence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The illustrations were done by my lovely and talented friend [Felix](https://hell-cube-art.tumblr.com/)! All I did was color them... go and give him some love!
> 
> Fun fact: I wrote the line about Adam Sandler about four months before the update that canonized his execution. Talk about prophetic.

STRIDER,

INSIDE THIS PACKAGE IS:

-A ~~SQUEAKBEAST~~ ~~CHEESE CRITTER~~ ANIMAL. FUCK THIS. I DO NOT KNOW HOW TO TRANSLATE THAT. HAVE FUN, YOU MORBID (HA! I CAN USE BIG WORDS TOO) FREAK. THE SOPOR SLIME WILL PRESERVE IT. DO NOT TAKE IT OUT OF THE JAR.

-GRUBSAUCE, GRUBCAKE, GRUBLOAF. YOU DO NOT HAVE THESE ON EARTH, APPARENTLY? DO NOT EAT THEM ALL ~~IN ONE~~ ~~ONE TIME~~ ~~TOGETHER~~ AT ONCE. YOUR ~~DIGESTION SACK~~ STOMACH WILL HURT. A LOT.

-A MOVIE THAT I ENJOY. I AM NOT GOING TO TRANSLATE THE TITLE BECAUSE I VALUE MY TIME. ALSO BECAUSE WRITING BY HAND IN YOUR LANGUAGE IS VERY HARD.

EARTH “STAMPS” ARE FUCKING EXPENSIVE. MAILING PACKAGES TO YOU IS FUCKING EXPENSIVE. THERE WAS MORE IN THIS BOX BEFORE, BUT THE POSTAL DRONE SAID IT WAS TOO HEAVY. I TOOK SOME THINGS OUT. SORRY.

YOU ARE WELCOME,

(KARKAT)

P.S. THERE IS A “TX” IN YOUR ADDRESS. IT LOOKS LIKE A CHUMHANDLE BUT TROLL GOOGLE SAYS “TX” MEANS “TEXAS.” WHAT THE ALMIGHTY FUCK IS A “TEXAS?”

 

* * *

 

nubs mcshouty,

first off id just like to say fuck you for sending me a LITERAL alien lifeform preserved in a jar of some seriously sick slime because how am i supposed to top that? only one package in and youve already instilled in me crippling feels of pen pal'ing inadequacy

alright gonna be honest here bro: the itty bitty baby bug bites were not exactly my cup of tea. i know you hate earth idioms so ill go ahead and translate for you: by that i mean i opened the bag and had to try really hard not to puke in my mouth when i saw those little legs all up and jutting impudently at my face. i managed to get a couple bites in my mouth and while the taste wasnt bad (kinda like uncooked instant ramen noodles not that you even know what those are) my sensitive stomach couldnt really get past the fact that casual infantile cannibalism is no biggie on your murder death planet. good thing youve mentioned youre not the biggest fan of your planet either or else i wouldnt be able to rip on your nasty ass alien snacks. long story short being the benevolent guy i am ive included some mad snax native to planet earth. may they take your poor abused ignorant extraterrestrial tastebuds on a journey your gross grubs never could

you said you liked movies so i stuck a couple on a thumbdrive for you. not sure what kinda movies you dig/would dig so i just grabbed a little bit of everything. im not going to tell you which ones i actually like and which ones i stuck on there for ironic reasons so have fun figuring that out. the flick you sent me was cool but it did something weird to my laptop and also had no option for subtitles so i have no idea what it was about tbh but it was still pretty entertaining

later

d.s.

p.s. texas is where i live. its also a state i guess but the only important thing about texas is that im in it. also its really fucking hot. ill send you pics sometime

p.p.s. seriously though if i ever take it too far with the whole shitting on your planet thing just let me know. its mad fun riling you up but being straight up xenophobic is not cool

p.p.p.s. the grubcake was actually ~~really good~~ okay when i put peanut butter on it

 

* * *

 

 

“COOLKID,”

IS THERE A REASON YOU EXCLUSIVELY SENT ME REDROM FLICKS? EITHER YOU HAVE VERY NARROW TASTE IN MOVIES OR EARTH CINEMA IS TERRIBLY LIMITED WHEN IT COMES TO ASHEN PLOT LINES. “FIFTY FIRST DATES” WAS ALRIGHT. I ALSO ~~REALLY~~ ENJOYED “GOOD LUCK CHUCK.” “BACK TO THE FUTURE” MADE ME WANT TO CLOG MY AURICULAR SPONGE CLOTS AND SCREAM.

YOU MAY HAVE NOTICED THAT MY ENGLISH IS MUCH BETTER. ~~HERE IS~~ HERE’S WHY: I’VE *FINALLY* ACQUIRED (LOOK, ANOTHER SOPHISTICATED WORD!) A PROPER ENGLISH/ALTERNIAN DICTIONARY. ALSO, I’VE STARTED TO GIVE A SHIT ABOUT MY VOCABULARY/GRAMMAR QUIZZES. ONE OF YESTERDAY’S WORDS WAS “LOQUACIOUS.” I THOUGHT OF YOU.

ANOTHER THING I’VE BEEN SCHOOLFED ON SINCE OUR LAST (FIRST) CORRESPONDENCE: CONTRACTIONS. SURPRISE! CERTAIN WORDS IN YOUR ASS BACKWARDS LANGUAGE CAN BE COMBINED TO MAKE MY SENTENCES LESS OF A ~~GRUB-FISTED~~ HAM-FISTED SHITSCRAM. ~~DO NOT~~ DON’T THINK I DIDN’T NOTICE HOW YOU FAILED TO INTRODUCE ME TO THE *MIRACLE* THAT IS THE CONTRACTION YOURSELF. HOW LONG WERE YOU GOING TO LET ME SPEAK LIKE A STIFF-TONGUED, SOCIALLY INEPT IDIOT FOR YOUR OWN AMUSEMENT? I’VE CAUGHT ONTO YOUR GAME, STRIDER, AND ~~I HAVE~~ ~~I’VE?~~ ~~FUCK~~ I HAVE TWO WORDS FOR YOU: “FUCK” AND “YOU”.

SENDING INTERGALACTIC PACKAGES IS FUCKING EXPENSIVE. I’VE SAID IT BEFORE AND I’M GOING TO KEEP SAYING IT AS LONG AS IT’S RIDICULOUSLY GOD DAMN OVERPRICED, WHICH IS ALWAYS. HERE, THEY CHARGE SHIPPING ACCORDING TO WEIGHT. ~~THAT IS~~ THAT’S WHY YOUR PACKAGE IS SO SMALL THIS TIME. GET USED TO IT. TROLL CAEGARS DON’T GROW ON LAWNRINGS.

~~I HAVE~~ I’VE INCLUDED AN OLD VIDEOGRUB AND THREE MORE MOVIES. IF YOU HOOK UP THE GRUB CORRECTLY YOU SHOULD BE ABLE TO WATCH WITH SUBTITLES AND CULTURE YOURSELF A LITTLE ON THE FINER INTRICACIES OF ROMANCE. I’VE ALSO INCLUDED A PHOTO OF MYSELF TO  COUNTER THOSE ONES OF YOU AND YOUR BRO YOU SNUCK ONTO THAT THUMB DRIVE YOU SENT ME.

SINCERELY,

(KARKAT)

P.S. KEEP SHITTING ON MY PLANET/CULTURE/GENERALLY UNFORTUNATE COSMIC COORDINATES. SOMEONE HAS TO DO IT AND IT’S FUCKING DEPRESSING WHEN IT’S JUST ME.

P.P.S. ONE OF THE MOVIES YOU SENT ME HAD ADAM SANDLER IN IT. DID THEY NOT CULL HIM ON YOUR PLANET?

 

* * *

 

dear alien penpal who is apparently also a hopeless romantic

dude you should have told me you were into romcoms. i could have sent you a ryan gosling box set or something. idk if ryan gosling is actually in a lot of romcoms but hes got that kind of super kissable white dude with a chip on his shoulder face so im assuming he is. i wouldnt know though about like both the being a super kissable dude part and also the being in romcoms part. maybe you do. man do you even swing that way? on a scale from one being gravel in a tin can and ten being a four hundred horse power engine how much do chiseled dudes get you chirping out freaky contented bug noises? and dont even try to lie about the whole chirp/purring (churpurring?) when youre happy thing btw because i totally fucking heard you the last time we called on skype when you thought i was asleep and you were shoveling more gross alien snacks into that bear trap you call a mouth

but yeah those romcoms you sent me honestly went right over my fucking head again and im pretty sure that anyone who saw my search history rn would peg me as a fucking xenophile with all the funky troll romance bullshit i had to look up. they were pretty cool overall though not gonna lie. i still cant read the titles very well so i couldnt tell you which one was my fave even if i had one but thanks to the couple alternian words i picked up from you from our calls and the subtitles i was able to get bits and pieces this time. your language is so much more fucking complicated than mine and it used to stump me that you were picking up english so fast but after having to jump through the linguistic hoops that make up your native language im sure english felt like a walk in the fucking park to you

also the videogrub crawled under my desk as soon as i was done with it and i havent seen it since and the fact that this isnt even slightly disconcerting just shows me we have been bros for way too long

im gonna keep your minimalist package aesthetic going here and just send you a couple mixes and a cool shirt. i also threw in an old handheld that i never play and a retro game or two.  hopefully technology that isnt sentient/doesnt move is still interesting to you too

writing letters seems kinda pointless since we talk on pchum literally every single day at length but its still fun anyways

peace out dawg

(dave) (did i spell that right)

p.s. please dont stop making bug noises when youre happy because its actually ~~adorable~~ hella cool

p.p.s. i cant believe you killed adam sandler

 

* * *

 

DAVE, OR AS YOU WROTE IT, “DEVE,”

I CANNOT BELIEVE I AM BEST FRIENDS WITH AN IGNORAMUS WHO HAS HIS PAN SHOVED SO FAR UP HIS IGNORANCE SHAFT HE CAN’T EVEN SPELL HIS OWN GODDAMN NAME RIGHT. ALSO, YOUR HANDWRITING IS ATROCIOUS.

THE MUSIC YOU SENT ME WASN’T BAD. THE SECOND MIX WAS GOOD, BUT WHEN I TRIED TO FIND MORE OF IT ONLINE I COULDN’T. DID YOU MAKE THAT ONE? IS IT YOURS? IF IT ACTUALLY FUCKING IS, HOLY *SHIT*. YOU HAD ME FOOLED INTO THINKING YOU WERE JUST ANOTHER EARTH MONKEY, CLAMMY FINGERS DEVOID OF ANY AND ALL MUSICAL TALENT, THANKS TO THAT [OB-FUCKING-NOXIOUS SPEEDCORE](https://soundcloud.com/ufhlkgsdjfgjdfk/he-yells) YOU MADE/USED TO HARASS ME WITH BACK WHEN WE FIRST MET. WHATEVER THAT SECOND MIX WAS, SEND ME MORE OF IT. AND IF IT’S YOURS... CONGRATULATIONS. SERIOUSLY. IT’S GOOD. REALLY GOOD. THE SHIRT IS GOOD TOO. REALLY COMFORTABLE. ~~IT SMELLS LIKE YOU. FUCK. YOU’RE GOING TO THINK THAT WAS WEIRD. NEVERMIND.~~ THANKS.

AS ALWAYS, YOUR QUESTIONS MAKE LITERALLY ZERO FUCKING SENSE. DO I “EVEN SWING THAT WAY?” WHAT WAY? WHAT “SWING?” NEWSFLASH: MY LAWNRING DOESN’T EVEN HAVE A PENDULOUS RECREATIONAL DEVICE. AND AS FOR MY APPRECIATION OF “CHISELED DUDES,” ONLY ONE OF MY “FRIENDS” DOES NOT FALL UNDER THE UNFORTUNATE UMBRELLA OF “SCRAWNY NERD,” AND WHILE IN HIS PRESENCE THE ONLY THING THAT RISES IN MY THROAT IS PURELY PLATONIC ENMITY AND, OCCASIONALLY, BILE. AND EVEN IF I DID HARBOR MATING FONDNESS FOR HIM (READ: WAS TRAGICALLY SUFFERING FROM IMMENSE THINKPAN DAMAGE), PURRING IS FOR PEDANTIC WRIGGLERS. THE FACT THAT YOU EVEN WITNESSED ME DOING IT WOULD BE ENOUGH TO MAKE ME WANT TO CULL YOU, IF I WASN’T SO IRRATIONALLY, *REVOLTINGLY* FOND OF YOU. YOUR PRESENCE IN MY LIFE, MUCH LIKE A BENIGN TUMOR, IS UNWANTED BUT OF TOO MUCH TROUBLE/GENERAL ASS FUCKERY TO BE RID OF.

I KNOW SINCERITY MAKES YOU BREAK OUT IN HIVES, SO I’LL STOP FOR YOUR SAKE.

I’VE INCLUDED A BOOK ON THE ANCIENT ART OF ALTERNIAN SLAM POETRY, WITH TRANSLATION NOTES BY YOURS FUCKING TRULY IN THE MARGINS.

TRY NOT TO PISS YOURSELF WITH EXCITEMENT,

(KARKAT)

P.S. HERE IS HOW TO *PROPERLY* SPELL YOUR NAME IN ALTERNIAN: 

P.P.S. OKAY, YOUR HANDWRITING ISN’T *THAT* BAD. I GUESS.

P.P.P.S. I CAN HEAR YOU CHUCKLING FROM LIGHT YEARS AWAY. FUCK OFF.

 

* * *

 

karkat

im sure by the time you get this ill have already wished you a happy wriggling day over pchum and i know trolls dont really do the whole birthday thing but humans do and i am not going to let my best bro refuse a birthday gift for the third year in a row

according to conventional human astrology youre a cancer which is hilariously accurate because after a casual google search or three i discovered that all cancers are ornery motherfuckers with secret gooey bleeding hearts of gold (literally you). so i bought you this little guy in an effort to familiarize you with your astrological heritage and also cause he reminded me of you at the store. look youve even got the same furrow to your brows

anyways i hope you dig him. not sure hes slime proof though so i wouldnt recommend taking him into your recon racoon or whatever the hell you call your bug bed

hope you two have fun together

(dave)

p.s. 

p.p.s. okay im pretty sure i spelled that right but on the off chance i didnt its supposed to say “happy wriggling day”

 

* * *

 

DAVE,

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, YOU FUCKING LOSER. CONGRATULATIONS ON DRAGGING YOUR BONY, DISTRESSINGLY PERKY ASS THROUGH YET ANOTHER YEAR.

I’LL HAVE ALREADY CALLED YOU ON SKYPE AT LENGTH BY THE TIME YOU GET THIS, SO THERE’S NO POINT IN WAXING POETIC ABOUT OUR INTERGALACTIC BROSHIP HERE. NEVERTHELESS, THANKS. FOR BEING MY FRIEND, I MEAN. ~~I DON’T KNOW WHAT I’D DO WITHOUT YOU.~~

YOUR PRESENT THIS YEAR IS MY OLD ALTERNIAN/ENGLISH DICTIONARY. IT’S THE SAME ONE I GOT AFTER OUR FIRST LETTERS. MY ~~BLOOD~~ SWILL, SWEAT, AND TEARS ARE IMBUED WITHIN THESE PAGES. SINCE YOU SEEM SO HELLBENT ON LEARNING WHAT IS *UNDOUBTEDLY* THE MOST COMPLEX LANGUAGE IN PARADOX SPACE, I FIGURE IT’LL BE OF MUCH MORE USE TO YOU THAN TO ME NOW.

ENJOY,

(KARKAT)

P.S. ~~AS MUCH AS IT PAINS ME TO ADMIT IT,~~ YOUR ALTERNIAN HANDWRITING IS GETTING BETTER.

 

* * *

 

sup man

holy SHIT has it been a long ass time since weve sent each other anything not over a keyboard. i figured id pull a quick letter out of my sentimental (and totally not bony wtf) ass for old times sake

i saw a troll irl for the first time today at school and jesus christ was he fucking huge. dude probably could flipped a desk with the rack on his head. it made me realize that even though we video call on skype like every day i still dont really know how tall you are. are you that big? actually wait nevermind. dont answer that. id rather be surprised

anyways he came to earth as some kind of refugee/exchange student combo. i cornered him in the hallway after class and pressed him for deets and apparently he got into the program on some kind of scholarship after nabbing refugee status. his english was pretty good but sounded really fucking spotty compared to yours. you could probably nab yourself a free ride with that program no problem with how biznasty your english is. i know youve wanted to hit up earth for a while now and if you need a host family me and my bro have got you covered. ~~i really want to meet you~~ no pressure though dude. just a thing to consider i guess

catch you later

(dave)

p.s. his rack may have been impressive but yours are still way ~~cuter~~ ~~cooler~~ ~~you know what? fuck it~~ cuter

 

* * *

 

DAVE,

THREE WORDS: I GOT IN.

I'M SENDING THE SHIRT YOU GAVE ME TWO YEARS AGO BACK TO YOU FOR SAFE KEEPING. IT'LL BE GOOD TO HAVE AT LEAST ONE PIECE OF CLOTHING I ALREADY KNOW FITS WAITING FOR ME ON YOUR PATHETIC PLANET.

PREPARE YOURSELF, ASSMONGER.

(KARKAT)

P.S. YOU'D BETTER HAVE SOME KIND OF SOPOR WAITING FOR ME WHEN YOU TAKE ME BACK TO YOUR HIVE IF YOU WANT THIS STAY TO LAST MORE THAN A DAY. ~~I KNOW I SURE WANT IT TO.~~


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all... sorry this took so long! The next chapter is mostly written out, so that should be posted _fairly_ soon. I wish I could promise a consistent update schedule for the rest of this fic, but school is too hectic and unpredictable... :,(
> 
> Second of all, please welcome the awesome PunkZucchini! They beta'd this chapter (the first beta I've _ever_ had, which is beyond exciting) and made it exponentially better in so many ways.

Karkat Vantas arrives on Earth for the first time with chapped lips, a frown on his face, a forged intergalactic passport, and eighteen romantic comedies crammed into his protesting suitcase. You spot him in the crowd with ease; he is conspicuously grayscale next to his fellow fliers’ Hawaiian shirts and colorful luggage. He’s shading his eyes with his hand, his features twisted as he scans the crowd. You take four eager steps towards him before you are crippled by sudden anxiety.

Your intergalactic pen pal is standing thirty feet away from you, and now that he’s finally here, you realize you have absolutely _no idea_ what to say to him. What do you even say to someone who has traveled _light years_ to meet you?

You drop your gaze to the floor. Your face is hot, your chest is tight. It feels like someone has woven cold fingers into your rib cage and given it a tug. You don’t take another step—approaching him feels like a herculean task, now. Your heartbeat pounds in rapid time with the rattling wheels of nearby suitcases.

You feel like you aren’t equipped to be here at the Houston airport, surrounded by hundreds of people and picking up your best friend. You feel like you aren’t equipped to have a best friend at all, but he’s here anyways and you have no idea what to fucking do.

Overcome with insecurity, you reexamine your outfit—skinny jeans and your “I WANT TO BELIEVE” t-shirt—and start to question yourself, almost to the point of interrogation. Should you have dressed nicer to make a better first impression? Does it count as a first impression even though you’ve already met him? Will he understand the humor to your shirt and, if he does, will he even think it’s funny? You run a hand through your hair and wonder if he’ll find _you_ funny in person. The perpetual scowl on his face has always been amusing to you, but seeing that same scowl live, only thirty feet away from you, is a lot less amusing and a lot more intimidating.

Your hands have just begun to sweat when Karkat finally notices you. He squints as if unsure it's really you; when he realizes it is, his eyes widen and his lips part. Somehow, despite the unforgiving gray of his skin and his bear trap of a mouth, he still appears shy. He swallows, and you watch the alien muscles of his throat twitch. He takes a few faltering steps in your direction before his expression hardens into one of determination. His eyes locked on you, he shoves his way through the crowd, shouldering human businessmen, vacationers and flight attendants aside until he’s standing in front of you with an expectant look on his face.

“Hey,” you choke out, raising a clammy hand in greeting.

“Hey,” Karkat says back. He sounds exactly the same as he does in all of your calls. Rough and low, he speaks with what sounds like a Russian accent that’s been fed into a woodchipper, then reassembled with careful annunciation. He slides the hand not glued to his brow into the pocket of his hoodie, his shoulders hunched. His posture is atrocious.

“So, uh…” you begin, but don’t finish. You lick your lips and stare down at him, at a loss for words and even more lost in mapping the features of his face. Three years of intergalactic correspondence—of finicky internet connection, grainy video calls, low resolution file sharing, and incompatible alien technology—only ever offered you hints of the freckles dusted across his cheeks, of the textured ridges to his horns. You are dizzy with proximity, drunk on detail, and completely incapable of finishing your sentence. Silence settles over the two of you, heavy and uncomfortable, until Karkat breaks it.

“Oh, _fuck_ this,” he growls, rolling his eyes at you. He throws his entire body into the gesture—his shoulders, head, and hips rolling, too, his entire person a hyperbole.

You flinch, directing your gaze to the floor—you haven’t even said a proper sentence to him yet but you’ve already fucked this up. You brace yourself for him to turn around and leave, but doesn’t. Instead he sighs, removing his hands from his pocket and forehead. The acute alien angles of his face soften.

“Get over here, you awkward, fleshy disaster,” he says, and opens his arms in an invitation for a hug.

You can count the number of times you’ve participated in a hug on one hand. You start to move towards him anyways, but falter; the joints in your legs are stiff and uncooperative with anxiety. Frustrated, you clench your jaw and try again, bridging the last foot between the two of you with a single, jerky step. You take a deep breath and give him the best hug you can muster, draping your arms across his shoulders and tugging him closer. Your hands slide down his shoulders and linger, doubtful, just above his waistline.

Karkat immediately hugs you back, wrapping his arms around your waist and burying his face in your chest, his eyes screwed shut. His claws prick at the small of your back through the fabric of your shirt. You give him a light, hesitant squeeze. The squeeze he gives you back is so firm and insistent, it feels like he’s trying to wring all of the tension out of your body.

It works—your anxiety comes rushing out of you like dishwater from a sponge. He wants you here if he’s hugging you, you realize; he wants to see you as much as you want to see him. You feel giddy.

“You’re so much shorter than I thought you would be,” you chuckle, incredulous, into his hair.

“At least I’m short instead of an awkward mess,” he retorts, but you can feel him smiling against your chest.

He’s so warm, and he smells so good. Now that you’ve started hugging him, you don’t want to let go, but the curious looks your fellow airport-goers are beginning to send your way are incentive enough for you to detach yourself. When you step away, Karkat’s hand immediately goes back to shading his eyes.

“What’s up with the perma-visor, dude?” you ask, raising an eyebrow.

“What’s ‘up’ is that it’s fucking bright on your planet, Strider,” Karkat replies, squinting at your face.

“That’s because it’s daytime, and there’s this thing you might’ve heard of called the sun. Welcome to planet Earth, space bro.”

“It is daytime and I am _nocturnal.”_

“Oh shit,” you say, “I totally forgot about that,” because you totally did. Differences in your biological clocks have, until now, been remedied by the difference in your planets’ time zones—midnight for him was mid-afternoon for you. Troll eyes are made to see in the dark, and the airport’s glass walls provide no protection from the setting Houston sun. No wonder he’s scowling.

“Can you even see right now? Are your eyes even working?” you ask.

“Yes, but they burn,” Karkat says. “Fuck your sun.” He scrubs at his eyes with the back of his hand, and when he looks at you again his sclera are glossy with pink tears.

You frown. “I can’t believe I forgot you’re nocturnal, jesus christ, sorry for being such a diurnal disphit. Uh, hold on, let me just…”

You only hesitate for a moment—long enough to look at Karkat’s pained expression—before taking your shades off, wiping the lenses clean with a corner of your shirt.

“Here,” you say, sliding them onto his face and perching them with great care across the bridge of his nose. You look away, suddenly, inexplicably, acutely embarrassed. “Be careful with those, okay? John gave ‘em to me.”

“I… yeah, of course,” Karkat says. He takes a moment to study his surroundings, then you. He’s seen your naked face in video calls before, but as he continues to look at you, his expression unreadable, you squirm, uncomfortable.

“Seriously, bro, be careful with those,” you babble, “rumor and Egbertian hearsay has it that those actually touched Ben Stiller’s weird, sort-of gaunt face and if you scratch them or something with those raptor claws you’re sporting, I’ll pack you in a box and ship you right back to Alternia, okay, I am _not_ messing around here—”

“Dave?”

You sputter to a halt. “Yeah?” you ask. It’s unnerving, being unable to tell exactly where Karkat’s eyes are pointed. You have newfound sympathy for everyone you’ve ever conversed with face-to-face.

“I _will_ be careful with them. I promise,” Karkat says. He smiles his usual crooked smile, equal parts touched and indulgent. “Thanks.”

When he looks at you like this, it feels like he’s tenderizing your insides. You struggle to keep your face neutral. “No problem,” you reply. “Enjoy it while it lasts, though, because this is a one time thing. We’re getting out of here and getting you a pair of your own a-s-a-p.”

“Good. I’m sick of crowds. Hurry up and ‘take me to your leader’ already,” he demands, curling his fingers on both hands to mime parentheses.

You grin. “Sure thing, Spock. Our ride’s parked outside. You got any more luggage, or are we good to go?”

Karkat tilts his head towards his suitcase. “No, it’s all here.”

“It’s _gross_ is what it is,” you say. Purple and made of chitinous exoskeleton, his suitcase, like a majority of Alternian technology, is organic. Three pairs of legs twitch seemingly of their own accord at its sides. You hadn’t seen it earlier when he’d charged through the crowd; you’d been too preoccupied with watching his face.

“I think you mean ‘efficient,’” Karkat retorts, tugging his luggage closer to him by its plated handle. “Why would I drag my shit around when it can do the dragging for me?”

“How’d you even get that thing past security, anyways? Did you lie and say it was your son or something?” you ask as you head together towards the parking lot. Crab-like, Karkat’s suitcase scuttles alongside him, matching the stride of his steps as the two of you exit the airport and approach your truck.

Karkat’s face contorts into a scowl of earth-shattering proportions. “No. But you know what? Maybe I should have. Then they wouldn’t have wasted thirty minutes of my time running it through every single one of their—their,” he pauses, floundering for the right word, “ _primitive_ scanning devices! I am pretty sure the only reason they let me take it was because the last asshole didn’t want to touch it to see what was inside.”

He’s just as deliciously verbose face-to-face as he is in your calls, and you grin. “Besides that, how’d your trip go?” you ask. “The troll TSA really didn't give you shit for your passport?”

“It was alright,” Karkat says with a shrug, “and no, Sollux did a good job on it. They only looked at it for a second.”

“Cool, cool,” you say. He’d been really worried about his passport, and honestly, so had you—it and the rest of his Alternian documents were forged by a friend to declare him a rustblood. He'd only employed the forgeries to escape from Alternian space; upon entering Earth space, he'd stopped using them and successfully applied for refugee status as a mutant, instead. Still, it had been agonizing, wondering whether or not he'd been detained and culled by troll authorities. He hadn't had the time or signal strength to contact you for almost a week.

“Hey, so the big men upstairs gave you new papers, right? What's it like being legally red?" you ask. The Earth immigration officials provided him with new, accurate identity paperwork, reflecting his permanent residency and mutation.

Karkat breaks eye contact. "No one here has tried to cull me yet," he says, terse, frowning at his shoes. He doesn’t look angry but he also doesn’t look happy, so you decide to drop it. You’ve tried your best to grasp the gravity of his mutation—have spent hours wrestling with the few English and even fewer Alternian resources detailing the toxicity of the hemospectrum—but you’re still too human to understand its finer nuances. At least, you are without Karkat explaining them to you, but he’s always been pithy about his blood and spends more time making you promise to keep it a secret than actually explaining it. You’d be frustrated about his reticence if it didn't make you a hypocrite.

Karkat is quiet as you unlock the truck. He’s still quiet as he herds his suitcase into the backseat and joins you up front. You search for a new topic of conversation before your palms start sweating again.

“Uh… what about the intergalactic jetlag, then? How’s that treating you?” you chance.

“‘Jetlag’?”

“Like, are you tired at all? From the time differences?” you explain, buckling your seatbelt.

Karkat buckles his seatbelt too, clicking it into place with far more force than necessary. “A bit, but I slept on the last plane,” he answers. Squirming in his seat, he runs a claw tip across the dashboard. “This is nice. Is this your scuttlebuggy?”

“What?” you say, sliding your key into the ignition. The truck rumbles to life before you remember _scuttlebuggy_ is the literal English reading of the Alternian word for car—the word for car in the terrestrial-Alternian pidgin language. “Oh, uh… no. It’s my bro’s, but he only ever uses it to drive to his creepy ass ventriloquist gigs, so the rest of the time it’s mine.”

“‘Ventriloquist?’” What you privately refer to as Karkat’s “dictionary face”—his caterpillar eyebrows furrowed, nose crinkled, and upper lip curled just enough to expose a hint of fang—makes its first ever in-person appearance. It’s every bit as amusing in person as it is on screen, and you bite the inside of your cheek to keep from grinning.

Forcing yourself to look forward as you maneuver out of the crowded parking lot and instead of at the alien in your passenger seat is a challenge. “It’s like, when you’re putting on a puppet show and you pretend to…” you begin, then glance at Karkat again. “Damn, do you guys even have puppet shows? Are puppets a thing on Alternia?”

Karkat is glaring at his phone ( _palmhusk,_ you remember), typing aggressively into some kind of messaging app. You assume he’s letting his friends know he arrived planetside safely.

“No,” he says eventually, without looking up at you, “we don’t.”

“Oh. That’s cool, I guess. You guys aren’t missing much.”

“Yeah.”

Silence falls over the two of you again as Karkat puts his phone away and focuses his attention out the window. After several wordless minutes, you are resisting the urge to squirm in your seat. Should you turn on the radio? Would that bother him? What kind of music does Karkat like, again? You suddenly can’t remember.

“You hungry?” you blurt out, desperate to say something, anything.

Karkat turns away from the window to blink at you, his third set of eyelids dragging across his yellow sclera like that of a reptile’s. “Uh,” he replies, perplexed, “yes?”

“Cool,” you say, a little too fast. “Wanna go to, uh… shit, have you ever had a burger before?”

“No. What the fuck is a ‘burger’?”

“Well, that settles it. We’re going to Whataburger. Get ready to phone home, E.T, because the stuff I’m about to feed you is so good you’re gonna be speed dialing your gray buddies to tell them all about it—”

“Dave.”

“Yeah?”

“The light is green.”

It is. “Fuck.”

You clam up and turn your attention back towards driving. Karkat looks back out the window, and doesn’t speak again until he complains that you’re taking too long to park in the Whataburger parking lot. He has launched into a tirade about the “astounding inefficiency of human transportation” by the time the two of you enter the building, but quiets to read the menu.

Dressed entirely in monochrome and wearing your shades and a frown, Karkat, despite his diminutive size, looks sharp and intimidating underneath Whataburger’s fluorescent lights. You wonder if he is the first alien to ever dine at this Whataburger, then wonder if he is the first alien to dine at _any_ Whataburger. Probably not, since the first tentative wave of Alternian immigration has been ongoing for about a year, now, but it’s a fun thought to entertain anyways.

You give him a minute or two to contemplate the menu, then nudge him with your elbow. “If I were you I’d get a burger,” you suggest, "or maybe a chicken strip sandwich if you wanna live a little on the wild side."

He frowns at the menu. “What about the… Whatachick'n strips?” he asks, pronouncing _Whatachick'n_ very, very carefully. It’s endearingly alien. He’s endearingly alien. You wish you could hear him read the entire menu without him verbally eviscerating you.

You purse your lips to keep from laughing. “Those are okay, but if you want the authentic Earth fast food experience I’d just go for a burger.”

“Excuse me, sirs, are you ready to order?” the cashier interjects, looking skittish behind the cash register. You don’t blame her. Interspecies interactions probably weren’t covered in her employee’s handbook.

You order yourself a bacon cheeseburger, fries, and a drink. With stiff, cautious speech, Karkat orders the same thing, and you realize that his only interactions with humanity so far have been his conversations with you and any he may have had with his human flight attendants. When the cashier understands him without difficulty, Karkat punctuates his order with a tiny, vindictive grin, apparently pleased with himself. You fish a twenty dollar bill out of your pocket and pay for both meals with your own money (ad revenue from _Sweet Bro and Hella Jeff,_ mostly).

As you receive your change, Karkat protests, “I have money, you know. I can pay for myself.”

“This is your first meal on Earth, bro. Let me treat you a little.”

“Oh,” he says, and then after a pause, “thanks.” He scuffs his shoes against the floor. _‘I am entirely unused to receiving nice things’_ may as well be stamped in bold text across his forehead. You’d tease him for it if it didn’t make your chest ache—if you didn't have the exact same thing branded on your forehead, too.

You find a clean table near a window, looking out at the parking lot. Karkat sets his tray down with enough force to jostle the ice cubes in both of your drinks. You unwrap your burger but, before you can take a bite, are distracted by the sight of Karkat eating. The black of his gums, the gray of his tongue, and the points to his teeth fascinate you. You want to cradle his jaws to see if they flex the same way yours do. He has sideburns, you notice for the first time, little bristly ones framing his cheekbones. You want to touch them and see if they feel as course as they look.

You don’t realize you’re staring—forget Karkat can see you staring without your shades to hide your eyes—until he looks up at you and demands, “What?”

“Uh,” you say. You scramble for a decent excuse, unwilling to admit you were contemplating how his face would feel underneath your fingertips.

“I was just distracted by how you eat, bro,” you say. It isn’t entirely a lie. “You’re tearing into your food like a shark. Or maybe more like a snake, I guess, since you’re practically unhinging your jaw to cram all of that burger into your mouth.”

Karkat isn’t reacting, instead staring at you with his lips pressed tightly together. You stifle the urge to panic with more rambling.

“I probably shouldn’t be surprised by that since you’re always up to all sorts of weird reptilian antics on the down low,” you press on, talking faster this time. “Not gonna lie, bro, the first time you hissed at me over cam I almost pissed my pants. Don’t hiss at me now for saying that, though—I don’t wanna piss myself in public. This booth is nasty enough as it is.”

Instead of berating you for your obvious bullshit, Karkat just sets his burger down and sighs. “Look, Dave, you can stop pretending now. I understand.”

“What?”

“I understand, okay? I’m even more of a, a— _gargantuan_ fuck up in person than you were expecting and now you want to leave. I understand! I, as you would say, ‘get it.’”

_“What?”_ you repeat.

“Pretending to be excited by talking a lot was nice, and so was paying for my food but I am— _I’m_ not an idiot. I make you nervous. You’re acting like a hopbeast facing a cholerbear.”

You frown. “Pretending? Karkat, dude, what the fuck—”

“You haven’t even touched your food! You keep wiping your hands on your stupid narrow jeans underneath the table!”

“Skinny jeans,” you reply automatically, then fight the urge to stuff your grease-stained napkin into your mouth. You try again. “We’ve been over this, remember? You already went on a self-deprecating spiel a couple weeks ago. I said I wanted you here like, five hundred times.”

“Yes, but that was over text! Through a screen! Light years away from contact with my disgusting meatsack,” Karkat hisses, but he sounds less like something threatening and more like air wheezing out of a balloon. His accent thickens with every word, his teeth and throat clicking unrestricted as he becomes increasingly upset.

“What, so you think I’m—I’m,” you stutter, and old shame from your early childhood makes your stomach burn—suddenly you feel like you’re eight again, your palms pressed to the searing concrete as your bro makes you do ten push-ups for every time your speech falters. You swallow and try again. “You think I’m disappointed with how you are in real life or something?”

“You keep looking at me like I ruined human Christmas!”

You raise an eyebrow. “No offense, dude, but that’s complete bullshit. Everything I said about wanting to meet you hasn’t gotten any less true.”

“But I’m different in person,” Karkat admits with a grimace, looking less indignant and more defeated by the second. His lips purse around his next words like they’re bitter in his mouth. “Loud. Grating. _Obnoxious.”_

“Implying that you haven’t already been assaulting my eardrums in all of our calls for the past three years. Trust me, man, I’m used to it. Your shrieking kinda grew on me like… uh, how did you put it that one time? A ‘benign tumor?’” you quip.

The beginnings of a smile tug at the corners of Karkat’s lips, but fade as he glares down at his lap and says, “I’m alien to you.”

“And?” you deadpan, “Karkat, bro, I’m literally learning your language. I’ve willingly put your gross bug snacks in my mouth on multiple occasions. I can name an Alternian slam poet for every letter of your backwards alphabet. Alien stopped being an issue a while ago—shit, dude, the fact that you’re chowing down with me right now is testament to that. My time to run away screaming about, like, _probing_ or something is way past.”

“I’m still making you nervous, though,” Karkat grumbles, stubbornly argumentative even when—especially when—it comes to debasing himself. “That is still a bad thing that is happening.”

He’s right. You glance away, taking an self-conscious sip of your soda. “It’s not you that’s making me nervous,” you begin, then admit, “I mean, okay, yeah, maybe a little, but not ‘cause of anything you’re doing. I just…”

“You just what?” Karkat urges. His shoulders are still tense, but he looks less liable to spring from his seat.

“I just, uh...” you falter. Your tongue feels swollen and useless in your mouth, like when you pronounce an Alternian word your tongue lacks the dexterity for—which, you think a little helplessly, is fitting since emotional expression isn’t a language you’re fluent in, either.

“I just don’t wanna to fuck this up,” you eventually admit. Your voice comes out smaller than you intended. You set your burger down on your plate. “You’re my best bro in two galaxies and I promised you over and over again that I’d show you all of the best shit earth has to offer, and now that you’re actually here I don’t wanna fuck this up for you.”

Karkat’s eyes soften. His shoulders relax, settling back against the greasy pleather of your booth. “You’re not going to fuck it up, Dave,” he says.

“See,” you deflect, “that’s exactly how I feel about you. You’re not a fuck-up, dude, no matter how loud you wanna get.”

Karkat opens his mouth to argue, but closes it after a few failed, floundering attempts, his teeth clicking together. He stares at you, then at the fries spilled across his tray and oozing grease onto their paper placemat. Your food is cold by the time he speaks, your stomach tied up into an anxious knot.

“Fine. But me being here still feels too good to be true,” he admits, stiffly. “The universe never gives me a fucking break so why would it now?”

You snort, incredulous. “You’re here because you’re my bilingual best bro and you landed yourself a kickass scholarship, not because of some bullshit cosmic conundrum.”

Karkat narrows his eyes. “What the hell is a ‘conundrum?’”

“It’s like… a hard problem or situation to solve.”

“Oh,” he says. He takes a jerky bite from his burger, his cheeks darkened with embarrassment. “When you put it that way, what I said sounds fucking stupid.”

“That’s because it is, dude. Now quit being such a neurotic—”

“‘Neurotic?’”

“Nervous for no reason,” you supply.

“Oh. That’s a good one.”

“Thanks. Anyways, quit being such a _neurotic_ weirdo and eat your fucking fries.”

“Only if you stop being one, too,” he replies, peering at you critically over the top of his burger.

Any snarky reply you might’ve had to that wilts on your tongue at the look he’s giving you. “Alright, fine,” you concede, “I’ll eat my fucking fries, too.”

Embarrassment over your show of insecurity prickles at your scalp. From the mortified frown on Karkat’s face, he’s feeling the same way. You chew the last bites of your meal in silence, but it doesn’t feel heavy or uncomfortable anymore, just relieved. Your meal, as greasy as it is, settles without fuss in your stomach.

“That food was okay,” Karkat admits as the two of you rise from your booth and walk towards the nearest trash bin. “But it was cooked too long.”

“What, like the meat?” you ask, as you put away your tray.

“Yeah, it was dry as hell.”

“Hey, not everyone can tear into raw hunks of flesh like you, some of us have to worry about things like salmonella. Cut me and my blunt-toothed crew some slack.”

Karkat rolls his eyes at you but doesn’t reply. Instead, he mimics how you slid your leftovers into the trash and stacked your tray atop the bin—then takes an extra moment afterwards to straighten the entire stack, his nose wrinkled in concentration. You watch as he, in typical, anally-retentive fashion, nudges orange corners into place. You imagine him surrounded by the usual material fracas of your apartment and are suddenly, immeasurably relieved you tidied up your apartment yesterday.

You tell him so. “Wow, okay, I’m seriously glad I’m cleaned my place up yesterday. Wouldn’t want you breaking out into rage hives or something at the sight of my apartment, shit.”

“I bet it’s still a mess,” he replies, crossing his arms. He keeps them crossed as the two of you walk back to your truck.

“Only way one way to find out, bro,” you say.

You take him home.


	4. Chapter 4

You open the front door of your apartment to an assault of technicolor felt. Puppets are strewn across the floor, are stuffed into the blender, are erupting out of the microwave and crammed into the sink. Lined up and facing you atop the kitchen counter sits a small entourage of smuppets, staring at you with expectant, buggy eyes. A marionette is sprawled suggestively across your bro’s turntables.

You spent hours yesterday herding puppets: nudging them into corners, piling them atop your bro’s futon, removing them from the shower and plucking them from the blender. Your bro must have come home this morning and made a mess of the apartment just to fuck with you. You grit your teeth and look at Karkat, who is gaping at the plush pandemonium of your living room.

You try to play it cool. “See, _those_ are puppets,” you joke. “Now you know.”

Karkat doesn’t laugh. Instead, he tentatively prods a nearby smuppet with his foot, his eyes wary. “Do they usually have asses this,” he pauses, searching for the right word, _“bulbous?”_

“Naw, that’s just how my bro likes ‘em,” you reply, your throat tight. Something like rage is simmering in your chest, threatening to boil over as you look at the state of your apartment. You need to get out of the living room.

“If this is ‘clean,’” Karkat says, slowly, “then I don’t want to see ‘dirty.’”

“Yeah, well, tell that to my bro,” you say, kicking off your shoes to head towards your room. “My room’s over here, c’mon.”

“Uh, alright,” Karkat says. He toes off his shoes and follows you, his suitcase navigating the calamity of your living room with unsteady legs.

Another one of your bro’s “ironic” comics is taped to your closed bedroom door, demanding your attention: a _Mr. Meaty_ and _Silence of the Lambs_ crossover comic crafted in Microsoft Paint. You peel it off of your door without reading it and rip it in two—you stopped reading your bro’s comics years ago. Karkat leans over your shoulder, raising his bushy eyebrows in curiosity as he watches you shove the scraps into your pocket so he can’t read them. You give him a shrug, trying to dismiss it as just another one of your bro’s quirky antics.

You enter your bedroom and are relieved to find it just as tidy as you left it. Cleaning it yesterday was a humbling experience—you discovered that the apple juice stashed in your closet expired, and had to google how to make your bed—and you’re glad your hard work hasn’t been tampered with. Your bro’s most inexplicable (and sole, your brain supplies bitterly) saving grace is his refusal to enter your bedroom. You close the door behind you as soon as Karkat steps inside.

“Welcome to Casa de Strider, man,” you say, perching on the corner of your computer desk. “It’s a little cramped but you’re just gonna have to deal with it.”

The recuperacoon you bought for him is sitting, ready for use, in front of your window. Karkat completely ignores you and the rest of your room to rush towards his new ‘coon. “Holy _shit,”_ he says in Alternian.

Unable to parse his inflection because of his accent, you are unsure whether that was a good _holy shit_ or a bad _holy shit._ You slide your hands into your pockets, battling a fresh barrage of insecurity. “I got the one with the best reviews on troll Amazon but if this one’s shitty, we can order you a different one,” you mumble. You also spent two hours translating the Alternian instruction manual it came with and another two setting it up, but you don’t mention that.

“Are you kidding me? Holy shit, Dave, this is so much better than the one I have in my hive!” Karkat says. He drags his palms across the recuperacoon’s chitinous curves and traces a reverent fingertip along its rim; you watch, a little baffled, as he leans over its slime and inhales. When he turns back around, his pupils are dilated with excitement. “This is good slime, too—highbloods sleep in this! How much did you even _spend?_ ”

“Don’t worry about it, bro,” you tell him, a little dazed by how good his _holy shit_ apparently was. His reaction, combined with the pride and relief swelling big and bright in your chest, is more than enough to repay the money you spent on intergalactic shipping. “Plus, you haven’t even seen the best part yet. Check it out: you’ve got the sweetest view in the entire apartment, too.”

You gesture towards the window. Karkat turns back around, leaning over his new recuperacoon to gaze at the Houston skyline. You’d picked him up at the airport around sunset, and now, at dusk, the sky is orange and pink, its saturated light seeping into the gaps between skyscrapers.

“Dave, this is…” he breathes, still staring out the window. You marvel at how casually Karkat braces his forearms against the windowsill; he is exposing his back to anyone who might want to push him and send him tumbling towards the asphalt. Snippets from all of the stories he’s told you about his home planet, cruel and capricious, flash through your mind. He trusts you a lot, you realize. Warmth and something dangerously, uncomfortably tender trickles up your spine, seeping into the ridges of your rib cage.

“This is _what,_ dude? You lost an adjective there,” you tease when he doesn’t finish his sentence.

He steps away from the window to glare at you, but the furrow to his brow is halfhearted and his lips twitch like he’s fighting a smile. “It _was_ beautiful until you opened your flap.”

“Sorry, but I’m gonna be flapping my mouth at you for a while now,” you say, your mouth pulled into a grim line. You need to neutralize any potential harm your apartment—and the man paying its rent—could inflict on Karkat if you want his stay to last. “I’ve gotta lay down some basic rules for you to pimp in my crib.”

Karkat leans against his recuperacoon, his arms crossed as if you’ve just issued him a challenge. “Go ahead,” he says.

You go ahead. “Rule number one,” you say, “is watch your step. Especially in the living room. Bro likes to scatter his shit all over the floor like a fuzzy minefield. Also, sometimes the shuriken in the kitchen fall on the carpet and hurt like a bitch when you step on ‘em.”

Karkat nods sharply. “Understood.”

“Sweet. That leads us to rule number two: don’t open the fridge.”

“The thermal hull?”

“Yeah, don’t open it. It’s full of swords and I wanna spend time with you and all ten of your toes.”

“So is all of the food in your nutrition block un… non...” Karkat trails off in search of the right word, his eyebrows furrowed in concentration.

“‘Nonperishable?’” you supply, then shake your head. “Naw, more like nonexistent. I’ve got snacks stashed in my closet but there’s fuck all in the kitchen, so I usually eat out. We can hit up the grocery store and try to cook if you wanna, though.”

Karkat looks at you strangely. “And what does your lusus eat? Shitty swords?” he asks.

You shrug; you have no idea how your bro feeds himself, nor do you care. “Don’t worry about it, man. Just stay out of the kitchen unless you’re looking for a weapon.”

“...Okay,” Karkat concedes, unsatisfied with your answer but unwilling to argue about it. “So what’s rule number three?”

“Rule number three is don’t mess with any of Bro’s shit. He doesn’t care if I do but I don't think he’d be down with you rummaging around through it.”

“As if I _want_ to touch his shit in the first place.”

You hold your hands up in defense. “Hey, for all I know seeing the felt fuckfest in my living room gave you a mad hankering for puppet dong. I’m just covering all of my bases, okay? Which brings me to the last and most important rule: don’t jack off in the shower.”

 _“What?”_ Karkat growls, looking scandalized.

“Jizz clumps the hair already in the drain into one big, sicknasty mess, and our shower clogs easier than a fat man’s arteries. The last thing I wanna do is slap on a hazmat suit to clean xenospooge out of the drain—shit, I don’t even have a hazmat suit. So seriously, don’t jack off in the shower.”

“This rule is ridiculous. Fuck off. Fuck you.”

“As long as it’s not in the shower, sure.”

“Fine! Alright!” Karkat exclaims, red-faced and throwing his hands up in the air. You  bite the inside of your cheek to keep from laughing at him. “It’s not like I was planning to—to, to do _that_ here in your hive anyways! I am a _gentletroll_ with _manners.”_

“Hey man, I’m just making sure we’re on the same page here. Nothing’s worse than starting the day off with a shitty shower. We’re already lacking enough basic motherfucking amenities around here as it is, and the sanctity of showertime's pretty much all I’ve got going  for me at this point—”

“So is that all of them?” Karkat grumbles, bulldozing through your tangent. “All of your ridiculous rules?”

“Yeah, I think that just about covers it,” you say. “Any questions?”

“Yeah. When am I meeting him?” Karkat asks. “Your ‘bro,’ I mean.”

You shrug. _Hopefully never,_ you think, but don’t say. “Who knows. He ollies in and out of here at random times of the day and creeps around like the shadiest motherfucker when he is home, so you’re not gonna be seeing much of him.” Karkat _won’t_ be seeing much of your bro—you’re going to make sure of it.

Skeptical, Karkat cocks an eyebrow at you. His face is still flushed from his miniature tantrum. “It’s a one bedroom apartment, Dave. Where can he hide?”

“You’d be surprised. Or will be, I guess. Either way, don’t worry about it.”

“I don’t like knowing that there’s a fucking adult here that I can’t see.”

You purse your lips together. “Hey, I’m not into his ninja nonsense either but there’s nothing we can really do about it. I promise he’s not gonna try to snack on you or anything,  though, dude. He’s human.”

“I still don’t like it.”   

“Save your adult animosity for adults you’re _actually_ gonna come into contact with, bro. There’s a lot of those in your future.”

Karkat huffs. “Alright, fine. Whatever. If he sneaks up on me and I attack him, though, that’s not my problem.”

“That’s fair, I guess,” you shrug. That Karkat thinks he’s capable of defending himself is a relief. You wish you could guarantee that he won’t ever need to. “So, uh, you got any other questions?” you ask, eager to progress to a different topic.

“Yeah. Where’s your ablution block? I need to wash off all of the earth monkey germs I picked up from the airport.”

“Dude, I _know_ you know how to say ‘bathroom.’”

“I like the other word for it better, fuck off. Where is it?”

You gesture towards the living room. “It’s the only other door in the living room. There should be a towel in there already. If there’s puppets in there too, just throw ‘em on the floor and put ‘em back when you’re done.”

“Of fucking _course_ there might be puppets in there, too,” Karkat wheezes, pinching at the bridge of his nose.

“You’re gonna have to get used to it, man. Also, hey, do you even know how to use an Earth shower? Need any help working my knob or anything?” you ask, then immediately snap your mouth shut.

Karkat blinks very, very slowly at you, his face unreadable. You scramble to clarify.

“Fuck, wait, I meant the knob, like the shower knob, not my knob-knob. You’d definitely need instructions working with that—not sure I’d want you to figure that one out on your own, my knob’s not really something you can just twist around all willy-nilly without a fuck-awful trip to the E.R., which in this case would actually stand for the 'embarrassment room' since I’d have to sit and wait for medical attention with a weird, deformed lump in my pants. I’d have to be all like: sorry, doc, but I let my alien pen pal have at it without prior instruction and now my dong’s ten different kinds of goddamn wrong and I think I’ve been crippled for the rest of my reproductive life—”

“I can figure your _knob_ out on my own,” Karkat interrupts you, rolling his eyes, “you absolute disaster.”

“Oh, okay, cool,” you stammer, watching as he opens his suitcase, digging through it for a fresh set of clothes, “sweet. Go boldly shower where no Alternian has showered before, then. Uh… just holler if you slip or need help or something.”

Already heading towards the bathroom, Karkat grunts in affirmation as he walks across your room, his clean clothes tucked under his arm. On his way out, he returns your shades to you, pressing them into your open palm. You wait until you hear him step into the bathroom to yell, “Don’t jerk off!”

He slams the bathroom door shut. His grumbling is audible through the wall, and you grin so wide your cheeks ache. You wait to hear the showerhead sputter to life before settling on your bed, propping your pillows against the wall to rest your back against.

Left open and lying motionless on the carpet, Karkat's suitcase is packed to bursting. You visually peruse its contents: clothes (all monochromatic and folded into crisp, economic squares), toiletries (all boasting Alternian brands and labels, all of which you can read but only a handful of which you can pronounce), a large laptop (made of the same extraterrestrial, organic material as his suitcase) and eighteen (you count, twice) multicolored movie grubs. When he mentioned a couple days ago that he was planning to bring eighteen romcoms to watch, you thought he was exaggerating. Apparently, he wasn’t. You chuckle to an empty room and wonder what else he packed. There’s no way to know unless you rummage through his belongings, and you’re not going to do that, no matter how much you’re prickling with curiosity.

Now that the worst of your anxiety is past and Karkat isn’t here to distract you, you notice for the first time how drained you are—your brain feels heavy and swollen in your skull, and your neck and shoulders ache after tensing for hours. It’s nowhere near as exhausted as you feel after a strife with your bro, but you still feel like your brain was dipped into the same deep-frier your fries were.

To clear your head, you listen to the hum of the shower and the whisper of passing cars on the street below. Focusing on the familiar sounds is mindless and soothing. You strain your ears, hoping to hear the pitter-patter of crows’ feet against the fire escape, but don’t hear anything. Your corvid companions must have other birdy business to attend to tonight. Hopefully you’ll have a chance to feed and see them tomorrow—you want to introduce them to Karkat so badly it’s almost embarrassing. You hope he thinks they’re cool. You’re not sure how you’ll feel if he doesn’t.

After ten minutes pass, you assume Karkat isn’t coming out of the shower anytime soon. As you settle further against your pillows, your tired mind wanders to thoughts of your friends. The trolls Rose and John are hosting were supposed to arrive planetside today, too, through similar scholarships.

You hop onto Pesterchum mobile to see how your friends are doing.

**~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~**

turntechGodhead [TG]  opened memo on board xenofriends anonymous: session one.

TG: sup guys

TG: hows the hosting going

TG: ...

TG: ......

TG: wow okay fuck you guys if this was a real alien invasion we and the rest of humanity would be dead by now  

TG: id be all like yo this is lieutenant strider reporting to base  camp from the field with a report of the utmost motherfucking importance

TG: ive nabbed myself an alternian prisoner of war with my boyish charm smoking good looks three years of diligent correspondence and roughly ten bucks worth of fast food

TG: noted weaknesses in the enemy so far include sunlight genuine gestures of bromantic affection and moderately expensive furniture

TG: in fact since the enemy is currently occupied with a shower of the steamiest persuasion let me make it known that our alien adversaries are not nearly as formidable as low budget sci fi/uncomfortably arousing xenoporn/independence day/other craptastic films lieutenant egbert probably enjoyed have led us to believe

TG: the enemy is not in fact green veiny and made of what looks like ballsack but is in fact grey adorably awkward and in possession of diminutive stature an overbite a penchant for earth profanity and a tendency to flush like a goddamn tomato

GG: hi dave!!! :D

GG: wow, that sure is a lot of silly red nonsense im probably not going to read :P

TT: I'm going to have to agree to disagree there, Jade.

TT: The aforementioned nonsense is fraught with some of the most delicious freudian blunders Dave has ever made, and that's saying something.

GG: hi rose!!! when did you get here?

TG: yeah wtf how long have you been lurking around listening to me ramble

TT: Long enough to wonder if this memo should've been named "xenophiles anonymous” instead.

TT: Uncomfortably arousing xenoporn? Bromantic affection? The steamiest of showers? “Flush” like a tomato? Really, Dave?

TT: You're making this way too easy.

TG: look his shower definitely isnt even halfway as steamy as youre insinuating since i specifically told him not to choke the chicken/and/or tickle the tentacle in there

TG: shit clogs the drain like nobodys business

TT: I love how you immediately jumped to the subject of him masturbating, without any real prompting from me.

GG: omg

TT: But I digress. If I picked apart every subconscious slip up in those last couple paragraphs, we'd be here for years.

EB: hey guys!

EB: what did i miss?

EB: besides dave getting owned, like usual.

TG: wow fuck you dude

GG: hi john!!!

GG: and not much... dave was just wondering how your first day of hosting an alien is going

GG: i think?

TG: yeah youve got it

TG: except for the fact that johns hosting aliens plural

TG: right?

EB: yeah, vriska brought terezi with her too. 

GG: oooh

GG: why did terezi come again? i think you mightve explained it before but i don’t remember any of it, sorry

EB: that’s okay! it is pretty confusing stuff. my dad and i looked over it together and it was just a bunch of intergalactic immigration mumbo jumbo.

EB: basically it is illegal for trolls who are vriska’s color and up to come here without their moirails, since apparently blue trolls are dangerous, or something?

TT: Almost, but not quite.

TT: It isn’t illegal for trolls of Vriska’s hemocaste and up to travel without their moirails, but it *is* strongly frowned upon by Earth immigration officials. 

TT: A majority of highbloods are subject to innate violent urges. If enough unpacified highbloods were to rampage on Earth and receive coverage by global news networks, the xenophobia already running rampant on our planet would multiply tenfold. And that’s not even taking into account the detrimental diplomatic damage such events would wreak on our fledgling alliance with the Empire.

TT: Terezi is accompanying Vriska as an intergalactic peace-keeping measure.

GG: oh, i get it

GG: thats good that she came then!

EB: yeah.

EB: i guess.

GG: ???

TT: You don’t sound very excited.

TG: wait wait wait hold on just a goddamn minute here

TG: are you telling me that john “goodwill and friendly times for all” egbert is actually capable of hating someone

EB: i don’t hate her! hate is a very strong word.

EB: but she is just… ugh! she is constantly trying to get my goat and cackling, and she keeps smearing her gross teal spit all over everything in my room because she knows it bugs me.

EB: and when she’s not doing that, she’s nagging vriska, or sucking up to my dad, or cackling. 

EB: she cackles a lot. who even does that unless they’re a cartoon villain or something?

TG: holy shit

EB: she seemed cool at first, and i think she could STILL be cool, maybe, but she just ISN’T, on purpose, and it’s so frustrating!

EB: i am 99% sure she is doing it just to fuck with me.

TG: okay but thats pretty much her thing dude? fucking with people is literally her schtick

TG: once as you learn to roll with her weird ass sexy space lawyer shenanigans tzs actually wicked cool

TT: I agree. I had fun the few times I conversed with her. She’s delightfully sharp. 

GG: yeah, ive talked to her once or twice and she was really cool! she told me she eats chalk sometimes and that was a little weird but she wasnt mean or anything

GG: are you sure this isnt just her hate flirting with you? :O 

TG: yeah bro tbh it sounds like that is exactly whats happening

TG: and it looks like the spades shes throwing at you are hitting their mark

EB: what? no way!

EB: that would be crazy!!!

EB: i don’t hate her!!! i am sure she’s a great person. or troll, i guess.

EB: i just dislike her personality, and the things that she does, and how she does them.

GG: omfg

TT: Wow.

TG: john bro i hate to break it to you but that is literally the textbook definition of hate

TG: or in this specific case hate at first sight since youve literally only known her for a day

TG: damn maybe i really shouldve named this memo “xenophiles anonymous”

EB: shut up.

TG: look dude take it from the guy who is literally the master of cramming his foot into his mouth

TG: the more you say the worse it looks

EB: ugh, whatever!!! 

EB: i don’t hate her, and that is final.

EB: this topic is starting to make me uncomfortable. can we talk about something else?

TG: alright alright i guess we can drop this topic like its hot

TG: if you ever feel like embracing your latent xenosexuality though just give me a shoutout and i can get karkat to give you some tips

TG: god knows the guy loves talking about his love quadrangles

TG: i took a peek of his suitcase and he packed literally eighteen romcoms for us to watch

TT: Ah, there we go.

TG: what

TT: I was wondering when you were going to mention Karkat again. You lasted an entire twelve minutes since the last time you name-dropped him, by the way. That might even be a new record.

GG: hehehe

EB: hahaha wow.

TG: ANYWAYS

TG: besides the thing you dont want us to talk about did anything else happen so far

EB: uh, not really.

GG: booooring!

GG: cmon john, something cool/weird must have happened

GG: they are aliens after all!!!

GG: >:-/ 

EB: well… wait, actually, there was one other thing that happened!

EB: vriska tried to fight my dad. 

EB: that was pretty crazy.

TG: haha holy shit dude what

GG: !?!?!

TT: Care to define "fight"?

EB: she lunged at him in the kitchen with one of her pirate daggers and terezi had to smash a cake over her head to make her stop.

GG: !?!?!?!?!?!?!

TT: Oh dear.

GG: omfg!!!

GG: what about your dad??? is he okay???

EB: he is pretty bummed about the cake. he spent HOURS making it last night.

EB: he is making a replacement as we speak, though, so he will probably be fine.

GG: i meant is your dad OKAY okay, dummy!!!

EB: what? oh.

EB: yeah, he’s fine.

EB: my dad is tougher than he looks.

TG: okay but why did vriska even have a fucking pirate dagger on her anyways

TG: seriously what kind of piss poor airport security did she slither through

EB: apparently she snuck it past the metal detector using her “feminine wiles” and “good old fashioned luck!!!!!!!!”

EB: whatever that means.

TT: Did you father do anything to provoke her? Did he move suddenly or have something sharp in his hands?

EB: he turned his back to us to grab one of our bigger kitchen knives, to cut the cake with, i think? and when he turned around and she saw the knife in his hands, she started hissing and tried to launch herself over the table. that was when terezi stepped in.

TT: Ah. That makes sense, then. From what I’ve seen, heard, and now personally experienced, trolls are nervous around adults of any species.

TT: Despite my most heartfelt assurances, Kanaya has been exceedingly twitchy around Mother. She doesn’t seem to trust her at all.

TG: karkat told me its cause adult trolls literally never come around planetside unless theyre hankering for an easy a) meal b) fuck c) looting 

TG: he was antsy as hell when i talked about my bro so i think its just a universal troll thing

TT: I see. That’s… concerning, to say the least. Hopefully our friends’ fears will fade with time and exposure.

GG: talking about alternia is making me sad :(

GG: lets talk about kanaya instead! besides being scared of your mom, what’s your troll like so far, rose?

GG: im so curious, omg

GG: is she as pretty as you told me she looked in the pictures she sent you??? :3c

GG: you sure were freaking out about that!

EB: wow, gay.

TG: gaaaaay

TT: She’s gorgeous, and then some. I am embarrassed to admit that, when I picked her up from the airport this afternoon, the sight of her so gravely flustered me I had difficulty approaching her.

TT: She was flustered as well, though, so everything worked out fine.

TT: I gave her a quick tour of the house, then spent a couple hours with her setting up her new recuperacoon. We just returned from a pleasant walk in the woods, and now she’s showering.

TT: So far she has proved to be exceedingly lovely and peaceful company.

GG: aww, im so happy for you two!

GG: also a little jealous tbh… i wish i was hosting feferi right now

GG: but shes got too much to do on alternia as the future heiress or whatever to leave

GG: and even if she could come to earth, according to all of the alternian study abroad programs, apparently my island is too “remote” to host anyone

GG: which is a bunch of silly semantics if you ask me!!! >:/

EB: bummer...

TT: Bummer indeed.

GG: but it'll be okay! since i am going to be with all of you AND your trolls in two months!!!

GG:  :”D

GG: i still cant believe we all got into the same university! it almost seems too good to be true tbh

EB: yeah! i've been so excited about having you guys come up here that i can't sleep at night.

EB: oh man, i hope karkat is as fun to rile up in person as he is online.

EB: i have SO many pranks planned, you guys have no idea.

TG: dont worry hes even more fun to fuck with in person

TG: well not too much since hes actually kinda sensitive but im the motherfucking master of good natured ribbing so its all good

TG: oh shit i just heard the shower turn off i think hes done getting squeaky clean

TG: catch you guys later

TG: good luck with your aliens

TG: especially you john youre gonna fucking need it

EB: thanks.

EB: see you later!

GG: bye dave! send lots of pics!!! >:)

TT: Take care.

turntechGodhead [TG]  closed memo.

**~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~**

Karkat returns to your room in a cloud of sweet-smelling shower steam. He’s changed into sweatpants and a short-sleeved t-shirt, you notice at a glance. You put down your phone to ask him how his first ever Earth shower was, but your words evaporate from your tongue at the sight of his arms.

Even another three years of correspondence wouldn’t be able to prepare you for the fact that your best bro’s been hiding the upper body of a brawler beneath his habitually baggy hoodies and sweaters. Karkat’s arms are padded with ample alien muscle and crisscrossed with sporadic scars. Your hilarious daydreams of him prancing around indoors with his sickles, like a sweaty nerd at the renaissance fair, reshape themselves into something more aligned with Alternia’s insistence on independent, ritualistic combat training. You aren’t sure whether your heart is beating faster out of shock, intimidation, jealousy, or even worse, _appreciation._

“I put on my sleep clothes,” Karkat says, oblivious to the shock behind your shades. “I didn’t think we were going out again tonight. I think I might be ‘jetlagging’ after all.”

You are too dazed by the fact that Karkat Vantas—5’3” and incapable of watching _50 First Dates_  without crying—could beat you in a wrestling match to correct his conjugation.

“So you want to stay in tonight, then?” you ask, distantly. “Hop into your ‘coon nice and early and call it a night?”

He shakes his head. “I was thinking we could watch a movie, first. One of the ones I brought, if that sounds good to you.”

“Sounds fine to me, bro,” you mumble. You can’t stop staring at his arms. “Bring on alien romcom theatre hour.”

Karkat smiles. “Brace yourself, because your scrawny ass is gonna get schoolfed.” He bends down to retrieve his laptop and a movie grub from his suitcase. “I am about to show you a cinematic _masterpiece.”_

You snap out of it. “Woah, hey, my ass is not scrawny. Or ‘bony,’ like you said in your last letter. Seriously, how many adjectives did you learn for the sole purpose of bad mouthing my butt?”

“It’s not bad mouthing if it’s true. I’m sorry, Dave, but—and here’s another one!—your ass is _negligible.”_

“I dunno, bro, it looks like your English is slipping a little. You’re getting your words all mixed up. I think the one you’re looking for here is ‘fantastic.’”

“What I’m _looking for,”_ Karkat says, rolling his eyes, “is for your ‘fantastic’ ass to move so I can sit.”

You snort and scoot over to make room for him and his husktop. The mattress bounces underneath the added weight as he settles less than two inches from you, your sides brushing as he balances his husktop partially on your leg and partially on his. His elbow jostles you as he fiddles with the video grub, hooking it up to his husktop and hitting “play.”

The movie is one of the more interesting ones Karkat has ever made you watch: the main character, a scrappy lowblood with a chip on her shoulder, is enlisted into the Alternian fleet and falls in complicated, seemingly-serendipitous diamonds with her surly, blueblooded superior. The more obscure romantic subtext is lost on you from the beginning—the insistent, close-up shots of the main characters’ neatly trimmed claws especially—but after a while, the basic plot is, too. Too preoccupied with Karkat’s proximity, you struggle to follow even the most dramatic conciliatory scenes.

Karkat’s wet hair smells of your shampoo; his skin, still damp from his shower, smells of your body wash. Cloying, the scent curls up into your nostrils and makes your head spin. The warmth of his thighs feels searing even through two layers of fabric. You are acutely aware of how long his eyelashes look in profile. The gentle, insistent press of him against your side is so enjoyable—so effortlessly intimate—it’s overwhelming. You watch his clawed toes curl and twitch against your sheets, and try desperately, hopelessly to restore your internal equilibrium.

“I think the directyrant’s choice to put them in a blackrom was a nice twist,” Karkat remarks loudly at the end, startling you and scattering your thoughts. It’s his first time speaking in almost two hours—he hates anything that detracts from his movie experience, and that includes talking. However, you can always anticipate a patented Vantas rant once the credits start rolling, and tonight is no different. He launches into a fiery defamation of the blueblood’s character, sprinkling Alternian words into his sentences until his pronunciation is mangled with clicks and chirps. With no small amount of pride, you realize that you get the gist of what he’s saying; the hours you spent worshipping the English-Alternian dictionary haven’t been in vain. You wish you could speak back to him.

“Man, I wish I had the right vocal chords to speak your language,” you groan, cutting him off mid-sentence. “The fact that it’s a biological impossibility for me is such a god damn bummer.”

“There’s still the in between language,” he points out in English, “terrestrial-Alternian. You’re almost fluent in that, aren’t you?”

“Yeah, but that’s just English with a clunkier set of vocab. I just wish I was capable of more than what’s basically an ultra-extended round of extraterrestrial Madlibs, you know? You spent so much time and effort learning my language and no matter how hard I try, I can’t talk back to you in yours. Shit seems crazy unfair.”

Karkat stares at you. “Wait. You started learning Alternian for my sake?” he asks. “That’s actually why you did it?”

You stiffen. “Uh,” you say, at a lost for words. Lending your best bro some eyewear is a pardonable, “genuine gesture of bromantic affection.” Spending months learning his language out of a secret hankering to make him happy is more like a “grand bromantic gesture”—and not one you’re entirely comfortable admitting to, no matter how many bullshit puns you concoct. Your ears feel hot.

Undeterred, Karkat places his hands on your shoulders, looking at you with stars in his eyes. “You taught yourself the hardest language in paradox space for me?”

“I mean, not _just_ for you,” you fib, lamely. “It’s also a cool language, y’know? Plus, uh, I figured since you guys are headed to our planet in droves it’d be a useful thing to have under my belt. Who knows, maybe it’ll spare me from my eventual Alternian overlords.”

“Only if they don’t cull you for your hideous accent first,” Karkat retorts, but there’s a fond, knowing look on his face that has you feeling like a butterfly pinned to a foam board. You totally learned an entire language on his behalf, and he totally knows it. Your ears are burning. You change the subject before you can further embarrass yourself.

“Yo, wanna head to bed?” you ask. “I don’t know about you but I’m hankering to get my snooze on. Battling all of that traffic kicked my ass.”

“...Yeah, okay,” Karkat says, still smiling at you like you’ve just told him a secret, even as he puts away his husktop and rises from your mattress. You busy yourself with rearranging your pillows and waiting for your face to cool.

In the outskirts of your vision, Karkat strips in jerky, utilitarian fashion, tugging his shirt over his horns in preparation for his ‘coon. Curious about his biology, you sneak glances at him as he steps out of his sweatpants and leaves them in a crumpled heap on the carpet. His boxers have little crabs printed on them and he’s soft around the middle, the chub there transitioning seamlessly into the soft slopes of his hips. His lack of nipples and a belly button is surreal. Even more surreal is the pair of symmetrical, crescent plates underneath his armpits—vestigial remains, you recall, of the extra set of grub-legs that fused into his sides during his pupation.

Your alien best friend has crossed the cosmos to be with you and is now standing in your Houston, Texas bedroom. This is dizzying, but not as dizzying as the fact that he’s so much more attractive in person than on screen. You’ve noticed his aesthetic appeal before in the same passive, objective way you assess all of your friends’ appearances, but this is different. The warmth coiling in your gut at the sight of him isn’t passive at all, nor is it detached enough to be mere, xenobiological curiosity, no matter how hard you insist it is. You try not to stare at him—him, standing almost naked only a few feet away from your bed—and fail miserably.

If Karkat notices you looking, he doesn’t respond. Instead he quickly crosses his arms over his chest and slides into his ‘coon. You look away, guilt burning at the back of your throat. You’re not sure what you’re more guilty about: ogling him in secret like a gross xenophile or wanting to ogle him in the first place. You bite your lower lip and decide to stop thinking about it.

“What are we doing tomorrow?” he asks, submerged up to his chin in slime. In anticipation of sunrise, he uses a wet, clumsy hand to lower the blinds over your window. Your room falls several shades darker, hazy, orange city light peeking between the gaps in the blinds and casting slotted shadows across your carpet.

“Getting you shades, and then whatever you feel like doing after that,” you reply, shimmying underneath your covers. “Why, you have something in mind?”

Karkat shakes his head. “Not yet. I still can’t believe I’m actually here.”

You nod, even though he probably can’t see you. “Honestly, I can’t either. It feels like some kind of crazy ass dream.”

“A good one, though,” Karkat says, or maybe asks. You can’t tell.

You answer anyways. “Yeah,” you say, “a really good one. The fucking best.”

Karkat grunts in agreement, the sound muffled by the slime. You think he’s relieved. You’re beginning to wonder if he’s asleep when he says, “Dave?”

“Yeah?”

“I’m really glad I’m here,” he says, his voice the softest it’s been all day, and you feel like someone’s pumped helium into your gut: you are buoyant with relief, with happiness, with—you think a little incredulously—“bromantic affection.”

“I…” you say, then have to stop because your throat feels tight. You think there’s a lump in it. You swallow and try again, your heart swollen and beating heavy in your chest. It takes you a couple tries to force the words out.

“I’m really glad you’re here, too,” you finally say, entirely sincere, your voice just as quiet as his was.

You hold your breath and wait for a response. After several long, silent moments pass, you realize you aren’t getting one.

“Uh... Karkat?” you ask, confused. You sit up in bed, propping yourself up on your elbows to look at him.

To your surprise, Karkat is already fast asleep, facing you with his arms resting on the rim of his ‘coon. There’s slime in his hair. One of his arms is bent, pillowed underneath his head; the other, limp and pliant, is hanging out of his ‘coon entirely. He’s buried his nose into the crook of his elbow. The sight of him, soft and sleeping in _your room,_ gives you a feeling you can only describe as “wobbly.”

You settle back into bed. You stare at the ceiling for a long, long time, and fall asleep wondering how he’d react if you tried to take his hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> BONUS: [Karkat in Dave's shower.](https://vine.co/v/iwp5Jbav2rn)


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Definitely mind the "child abuse" tag for this chapter! Also, sorry this took so long... I'm a slow writer and everything happens so much, constantly. But I've got a lot planned for the next two chapters (read: a ton of scenes I've been looking forward to writing for months), so don't worry: I haven't given up on this yet, and I'm not planning to! Thanks for being so patient, and for all of your lovely comments. They've been encouraging/motivating without being pushy, and I really appreciate it. Hopefully this chapter (and the ones to follow) will be worth the wait! >:")

You flinch awake to the heavy _thwack_ of something lodging itself into the wood of your bedroom door. You startle against your mattress, then sit up so quickly your abdominal muscles burn.  The sound that has woken you up is a familiar one—one you’d do anything to never hear again. It is the sound of your bro pinning an invitation to strife to your door. **  
**

Your adrenal system roars to life. Your stomach churns, overcome with a sudden, violent bout of nausea; your heart pounds in heavy time with the panicked, staccato clenching of your throat. Past experience dictates that the longer you procrastinate your trek up to the roof, the harder your bro goes on you. You clench your jaw and roll out of bed.

You’re still wearing the clothes you wore to the airport yesterday, but there’s no use changing. You’re just going to sweat in them anyways—you already are, the small of your back cold and clammy with fear-sweat. You’ll shower afterwards. You grab a change of clothes to stash in the bathroom on your way out. Post-strife, you can’t dress with Karkat around, not unless you want to upset him with the sight of the injuries you’re about to receive—

“Dave?”

You jump when Karkat speaks behind you, apparently awake. You’d been so preoccupied with your anxiety, you’d almost forgotten he was here. You whip around to look at him.

“What was that noise?” he croaks, looking disoriented. Apparently he’s a light sleeper too. You wonder if it’s a habit born of necessity like yours is.

You shake your head. You try a reassuring smile, but your lips are drawn too tight and can only twitch at the corners. “Don’t worry about it, dude,” you say, “it’s just Bro being a noisy asshole. I’m gonna go see what he wants this time.”

“Your bro?” he says, sitting up straighter in his slime.

“Uh, yeah. Seriously, go ahead and get your snooze on again. I’ll be back in a little bit,” you say, inching towards the door. You tighten your hands into fists at your sides so Karkat can’t see them shaking.

Karkat examines you, his eyes narrowed. The morning sunlight, peeking through the lowered blinds, has settled atop his shoulders in bars of light. You haven’t told a single lie, but the wary look he’s giving you makes you feel like you have.

Eventually, he huffs and closes his eyes again. “Come back soon,” he mutters, laying his head back down on his arms. You release a breath you hadn’t known you were holding.

“Sure thing, bro,” you say. You’re not sure whether his acquiescence is making your anxiety better or worse.

You slip out of your bedroom and close your door with a quiet click. One of your bro’s notes is pinned to your door, just like you knew it would be .

Your stomach churns at “cute alien friend.” Dubious of the protection it’s offering Karkat, you stare at your closed bedroom door, at the dull brass of its doorknob. Karkat promised last night he could defend himself, seemed almost vehement that he could and has the musculature to do so, but trepidation is still gnawing at your insides, making your toes tighten until they cramp in your socks.

You’re not sure how or when Bro even _saw_ Karkat and decided he was “cute” and “little.” The morning before, you’d meticulously purged the apartment of webcams, and you’re certain there are none in your room. You’re even more certain Bro wasn’t home when you returned from the airport last night to see Karkat in person. You must have missed some ancillary recording device, somewhere. Shame and frustration, as potent as nausea, coil in your gut at the thought of your bro, even from a distance, watching you react to the puppet pandemonium he’d left you.

A car on the street below honks loudly, the noise of it drifting through the open living room window, startling you and dragging you back to the present. You’ve dawdled long enough, and this time you have even more incentive than usual to drag yourself up to the roof. If you’re preoccupying Bro, you remind, reassure, _promise_ yourself, he won’t have a chance to mess with Karkat.

You grab one of the swords your bro has displayed on the wall, above his turntables. It’s not your usual blade, which you left in your room with Karkat, but it’ll do. It has to. It’s too late to go back into your room, now. You locate Cal, hanging over the back of Bro’s folded-up futon, and toss him over your shoulder.

Determined not to wake Karkat again, you slip into your shoes and exit your apartment in silence. The hallway, like always, is empty. The stairwell is as dark, stale, and oppressively muggy as usual. You scale its cement steps two at a time, sweat tickling the back of your neck, the underside of your chin, the small of your back. As you climb, Cal’s limp, wooden head bumping uncomfortably against your shoulder blade, you test the weight of your borrowed sword in your palm. Tightening and loosening your grip on the hilt, you familiarize yourself with the curve and weight of it. You’re already aching to return it to its holder.

Bro has his back turned to you when step onto the roof. You know he can hear you approach, can feel your footsteps vibrating through the sun-baked concrete, but he doesn’t turn around. Every facet of his stance—from the hang of his sword, its sharp tip barely grazing the rooftop, to the hand, faux casual, he’s slipped into the pocket of his trousers—is calculated, precise. You stare in between his shoulders, broad and poised to look like they’re not poised at all, and simmer. Rage bubbles at the back of your throat, lava-like. You’re years past the point of pretending that you’re “cool” with this: with strifing, with the roof, with him and the histrionic posturing he constantly, infuriatingly demands himself, from _you._ With a quirk of your shoulder, you shrug Cal off, letting him fall to the hot asphalt. The dull thud of his head upon landing brings you perverse, frightened satisfaction—frightened, because you’re years past the point of pretending all of this doesn’t scare you, too.

“Took you long enough,” Bro quips, once you’re standing a few feet behind him. He finally glances over his shoulder at you. His voice is flat as his face, which doesn’t even twitch. “Where’s E.T.? He phoning home already or something?”

Your stomach churns again. You swallow, and your throat clicks. “He’s sleeping,” you force out, not nearly as level as you wanted to. “Space travel really kicked his ass, apparently.”

“He try to pull any weird alien shit yet?”

When Jade had asked the same thing last night, you hadn’t minded at all. Coming out of Bro’s mouth, it makes you want to grit your teeth. “Naw, not really,” you reply, attempting a shrug, but the motion manifests too sharply.

Bro doesn’t reply, just keeps on looking at you instead, his silence the only acknowledgement he’s apparently willing to give. Your shoulders squared, you stare back at him, your eyebrows furrowed and just barely visible over the top of your shades. He turns on his heel to face you, and you shift into a defensive stance, bending your knees. The air between the two of you sizzles with tension. You tighten your shaking fingers’ grip on the hilt of your sword, and you wait. Ever since you first started to object to them a few years ago—to object to _him_ —Bro has always been the one to initiate your strifes.

This time is no different. He strikes first, his blade flashing bright and hostile in the early morning sunlight. You dart out of the way, your sneakers scuffing against the concrete, your throat tight and swollen with adrenaline. He’s lunging forwards again before you have the chance to take a breath. Parrying his next blow makes the bones in your arm vibrate up to your shoulder. Your arm aches, but not as much as your chest, drawn tight with fear.

You used to have nightmares where you couldn’t dodge fast enough, and the meat of you would spill through the sieve of your fingers and land at your bro’s impassive feet. Once, when you were thirteen, you spent two hours in front of the bathroom mirror pinching what little fat you had at your belly and trying to parse how many inches of your bro’s sword you’d have to dodge to keep your innards off the roof.

You came close to an answer nine months, four butterfly bandages, and eight stitches later, after you failed to dodge fast enough and he’d sliced through your shirt and into your flesh: a jagged, angry arc starting near your navel and following the curve of your hip. Ever the pragmatist, he’d used the opportunity to teach you how to give stitches. He made you do the last three sutures yourself, after you'd vomited twice from seeing so much of your blood on the bathroom floor. Afterwards, he kept you home from school for three weeks and congratulated you on “receiving your first battle scar” like “a true badass.” Teary-eyed and starving for approval, for attention, for _anything,_ you preened yourself over his praise for the weeks it took to heal—up until your next cut, which he left for you to stitch yourself.

The memory unsettles you, and going from the soft, sleepy safety of your first night with Karkat to the fear, danger, and adrenaline of your bro and the roof has left you rattled, unbalanced. When your next parry of Bro’s weapon is clumsy, he takes advantage of it right away, knocking your sword out of your hands. Hauling you in by the front of your shirt, he knees you in the gut and shoves you to the rooftop. Your knees and elbows make painful contact with the hot concrete.

“What’s the matter, little man?” he goads you, his voice still flat, but there’s the tiniest, smuggest quirk to his lips. You ache for the crunch of his teeth under your fist. “Distracted by your new boy toy?”

You think about Karkat, sleeping downstairs, safe in your room; bright and clean, the thought penetrates the frackas of your panicking hindbrain for an instant. Bro doesn’t have the right to talk about Karkat, you think vehemently, doesn’t have to right to know what he looks like and how he feels and how he makes _you_ feel. Your bro is trying to ruin that bright and clean, just like he did with everything else, and for a moment you want desperately to ruin _him_. You dig your heels against the rooftop and lunge for your sword. You jerk forwards, the trajectory of your sword promising contact with his bare arm—contact that’ll draw blood, you’re certain of it, blood that will bloom Rorschach red against the white cotton of his shirt. The image sickens you, bile threatening at the back of your throat, and you falter, jerking yourself backwards so quickly your teeth click together. Redirected, the tip of your blade slices the fabric of his sleeve and nothing else.

Bro steps back, appraising the damage you did to his shirt. “The first decent blow you could’ve landed on me in years,” he says, dry, “and you’re too much of a goddamn pansy to follow through. Your pet alien making you soft, kid?”

“Fuck off,” you pant, trying desperately to suppress your gag reflex. You almost hurt Bro for real, almost hurt him bad enough to _require stitches,_ and that terrifies you more than anything he’s ever done to you has. “Seriously, _just_ —just fuck off. Leave Karkat out of this.”

“So that’s his name, then. Good to know. You think he’s as much of a piss poor match as you are, or better?”

Your blood roars in your ears. Your pulse beats so hard you can feel it in your gums, hammering against your teeth. You want to snarl. You want to scream. You want to cry. You want to go back to your room and crawl into bed and stare at Karkat’s sopor-encrusted bangs until you feel better.

There is only one good thing about strifing with your bro: during strifes, you don’t have any trouble admitting you hate him. You hate him more than you’ve ever hated anything, more than you’ve ever hated twelve years of public school, more than you’ve ever hated your dingy apartment, more than you hate your own crippled social skills and crippling paranoia, and it’s liberating, to look him in the face and show it to him. It’s also terrifying, and exhausting, and you’ve been tired for such a long time already. You remember this, and all the fight in you evaporates, rushing out of your pores on your next exhale. You deflate.

When Bro moves to strike you again, you block it. You keep blocking the next ones, heedless of your sore wrists and even sorer elbow—a memento from five years ago, when it shattered against the stairs he pushed you down. You draw your lips into a straight line, your face into something stiff and stony, and don’t try to strike back at him again, even when you react too slowly and cheap steel bites at the skin of your arms, your hands, your fingertips; even when he snatches Cal up from the rooftop and throws him at your face and your feet, tripping you with his spindly, velveteen limbs.

Bro lets his sword clatter at his feet a couple minutes later, when it’s clear the fervor you displayed before has well and truly fled. Disgusted, he turns his back to you. Nothing about his posture betrays his displeasure, but you can feel it radiating from him anyways. It’s been years and you’re still unsure whether to shrivel underneath the weight of his disapproval or celebrate it. Sweat trickles down your neck, and you shudder.

His view of your swordsmanship as something pathetic and unsalvageable would be a relief, if it didn’t mean he struck you twice as hard for it. When you were younger, you justified the ways he hurt you as lessons, meant to better you. Now, you couldn’t justify his actions if you tried.

For a moment you linger, staring at the back of his head, catching your breath and trying to quiet the thundering of your heartbeat in your ears. Then, without a word, you turn back towards to the stairwell. Bro doesn’t follow you. He hasn’t for years.

On your way downstairs, you assess the damage you took. You’re relieved to find it minimal. A handful of cuts, mostly shallow, on your forearms; one nick on your thumb that should stop bleeding once you apply pressure and a bandaid to it; chest pain that should subside as soon as you do some breathing exercises. Nausea, already fading, from being kneed in the solar plexus. Scraped skin on your elbows. The usual aches and pains from early morning exertion. Nothing on your face, which is a relief—you don’t want to alarm Karkat. Your jeans and shirt are intact, also a relief, and you ache in a couple places but don’t appear to have torn or sprained anything. Your knees throb as bruises start to form.

The hallway is still empty when you slink back to your apartment. You head straight for the bathroom, locking the door behind you and bracing your sweaty palms against the sink, in front of the mirror. You take off your shades, folding them and placing them with care on the sink ledge. Your eyes are wide and watery; your face is gaunt; your cheeks are clammy with exertion and fear-sweat. You look away from your reflection. You’ve never been comfortable with how vulnerable you appear directly after strifes, and no matter how many you’ve been through, it never gets any better.

You shower is brusque, efficient. You turn the water as hot as it’ll go and do breathing exercises—ridiculous ones that make your ears burn and your spine prickle with shame but you, out of desperation, have adopted—to slow your heartbeat. The last of your adrenaline exits you in a fit of embarrassingly uncontrollable trembling. You wash with numb, clumsy hands, which, by the time you turn off the water, have steadied. Afterwards, you change into the clothes you had the foresight to bring. Your long-sleeved shirt and jeans cover the cuts on your arms and the bruises forming on your knees. A band aid obscures the only other visible injury: the cut on your thumb, which has finally stopped bleeding. By the time you step out of the bathroom, the worst of your nausea has subsided. You are, for all intents and purposes, ready—eager, even—to pretend the past hour never happened.

Your room is brighter than it was when you left it, sunlight pouring in unimpeded through the lower half of your window. Karkat, sunk down to his chin in slime, is still in his ‘coon, but he isn’t sleeping. Instead, he looks frantic, his eyes wide and hair wild. You open your mouth to question him but close it upon noticing you have visitors: three of your crows. One is standing on your desk, another sitting atop your turntables, and the last, smallest one perched on the clothesline you have your photos pinned to, almost directly above Karkat’s head.

“Uh,” you say.

_“Don’t move,”_ Karkat hisses. “Whatever you do, Dave, _do not fucking move.”_

“Uh,” you say again, “what’s going on here, dude?” Incredulous, you remain in the doorframe. You look at your crows, who are watching you and Karkat with their sharp, black eyes, more curious than cautious. The largest crow, one who’s been visiting you for years, cocks its sleek head at you as if demanding an explanation.

“They just—just _let themselves in!_ Through the window! I pulled up the blinds after I woke up and they came in and now they won’t leave, and—”

“Dude,” you begin, but don’t get to finish.

“—and _before_ they were pecking your stuff,” Karkat continues, panicked, “but then they stopped and now they’re just _waiting_ to eat my goddamn _eyes_ and now _your_ eyes too, probably, so _don’t fucking move.”_ He finishes in a stage whisper, as if afraid your birds will hear him, become offended, and attack.

You can’t help it; you grin at his frightened face like an asshole. The entire situation is just too hilarious. The ensuing look of disbelief on his face, crusty in places with sopor, and the indignant, sputtering fury that follows have you bursting into laughter. It’s the hearty, uncontrollable kind that makes your fingers weak, and you revel in it—in Karkat and the inexplicable, effortless way he’s making your trek to the roof seem distant and irrelevant, months past instead of mere minutes.

“Fuck, sorry,” you choke out between giggles, trying to catch your breath, “I wasn’t trying to be an asshole, I swear, but oh my god, Karkat, your fucking _face…”_

“I don’t give a fiery fuck about my face, Dave! Just the birds, which are _still here,_ by the way! Waiting to _attack us!”_

“Except they totally won’t, because these are some of _my_ birds, dude,” you explain, still grinning. You step towards the bird standing on your desk to demonstrate. The bird doesn’t react, but Karkat does, flinching and opening his mouth to protest.

You speak before he has a chance to. “They visit me all of the time. They’re not gonna hurt you, I promise.”

Karkat’s eyes widen. “These murderbirds are _yours?”_

You pause. “Uh, I mean, not officially, or anything. Mostly they just do their own thing, but they swing by at least once a week and I feed ‘em. Sometimes they bring me gifts but mostly we just hang out.” Aforementioned gifts are displayed on the shelf hosting your pickled dead things. “One time they brought me a silver spoon. I washed it and ate applesauce with it and it was kickass.”

“So you feed them, and they bring you things in return?” Karkat asks, suspicious, but he sits up a little further in his slime.

“Pretty much, yeah.”

“So they’re like lusii, then. You have yourself an entire flock of lusii.”

“What? No, that’s weird. These guys are just my friends,” you say, then want to wince at how pathetic you sound. You break eye contact with Karkat, turning towards the crow next to you instead, who allows you to very, very gently pet its head.

Instead of laughing at you, Karkat scrutinizes the bird closest to him. You can’t tell if his eyes are narrowed in animosity or thought.

“Can I touch it?” he asks eventually.

You blink, surprised that he’d want to after the fit he threw. “Uh,” you say without thinking, “I don’t think it’ll let you.”

Karkat flinches, looking insecure, and you scramble to reassure him.

“I mean, not because it doesn’t like you or anything,” you explain, “it just don’t know you yet, y’know? Like, if some mostly-naked, alien stranger dead-ass swaggered up to me and tried to pet me like I was his crotch dachshund, I’d be pretty freaked out too.”

Karkat derails the beginnings of that tangent with a look that could level half of downtown Houston. “Is there a point you’re trying to make,” he asks slowly, “or have you lost it already?” To your relief, he no longer looks crestfallen, just exasperated.

“Not as much of a point as you just had. Bro, that look you just fired my fucking way was so pointed, you could’ve used it to needle-felt me a miniature, fuzzy effigy of your middle finger.”

_“Dave.”_

You hold your hands up in mock surrender. “Look… all I’m trying to say is the not-touching thing is nothing personal, so don’t worry about it.”

“I wasn’t,” he protests, indignant.

You raise your eyebrows, but don’t respond to that. “Look, I’ve got nuts in my closet if you wanna feed it. It’ll probably let you do that,” you offer instead.

“I… okay,” Karkat concedes.

“Okay?”

“I want to do that. Feed them, I mean,” he clarifies, unnecessarily since you’re already moving towards your closet.

There’s a bag of peanuts sitting at the back of your closet. Rummaging through the snacks you’ve stockpiled to reach them, you grab a handful of nuts and drop them in Karkat’s waiting, pruny palm.

He stares at them, then at the crow over his head. “How do I do this?”

“Just hold your hand out. It’ll help itself.”

He obliges, extending his hand outwards slowly, stiffly, like an ambassador offering a handshake to the representative of an enemy nation—like the ambassador of the United Nations probably extended his hand to that first Alternian ambassassin. Karkat’s shoulders are tense. You are pretty sure he’s holding his breath.

When the bird doesn’t react, he looks back at you, his face scrunched up. “Why isn’t it working?” he demands, exasperated.

You snort. “You’re all freaked out, that’s why. Just… calm down and take it slow, dude. And don’t look at the bird directly or you’ll freak him out, too.”

Looking determined, his eyes narrowed in concentration, Karkat forces himself to relax. You watch as his fingers uncurl, millimeter by millimeter, until his hand is held flat and inviting.

The bird responds to Karkat’s newer, open posture immediately, abandoning its hold on your clothesline to perch at the edge of his ‘coon. At the first peck at his palm, Karkat flinches, his fingers twitching. By the third peck, he’s visibly intrigued. By the fifth, his eyes are bright and his lips are quirked in a small, satisfied smile. That he likes your birds and your birds likes him is both a thrill and a comfort. You stand a few feet away and watch him—awkward, excited, and impossibly gentle—interact with your flock, and let your feelings at the sight overtake you until you’re warm and bubbling with them.

Only once all of your birds have left and your window’s been lowered do you, still tingling with content, bring up the day ahead.

“So, what do you wanna do today?” you ask.

Karkat considers that, his smile disappearing as his face rumples in thought. He glowers at his hands. Even from a couple feet away, you can see how his fingertips have pruned.

“First, I want to get out of my coon,” he replies. “I’ve been in here too fucking long.”

“Well, now that the birds are gone, that is definitely a thing you can do. Not that it was ever really off the table in the first place.”

Karkat raises an unruly eyebrow at you, looking at you like you’re concussed. “I would have gotten sopor all over your carpet.”

“Oh,” you say, “yeah, wow, I didn’t think about that.”

“No shit, troll Sherlock.”

“Fuck you, troll Watson. But yeah, it looks we’re gonna have to get you a welcome mat or something? We could pick that up at the same time we get your shades.”

“Is that all we’re doing today?”

“Doesn’t have to be.” Out of all the potential plans you made for his arrival, this one’s your favorite. You’re excited to lay it on him. “Remember when you said you wanted me to take you to my leader, back at the airport?”

Narrowing his eyes are you, Karkat hesitates. “Yes?” he replies, like he suspects trickery.

“Well, that’s exactly what I’m gonna do today.” You smirk. “Ever heard of the Houston Space Center?”


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phew. It's finally here: the sightseeing chapter. There are scenes in here I've been planning for months (especially the scene at the end), and I'm so excited I finally got to write them out. Enjoy! >;)
> 
> Also, I've got [a tag for this fic](http://pulsenhaze.tumblr.com/tagged/astronomy-in-reverse) on my blog now. There's not a whole lot in there so far, but the stuff that _is_ in there is pretty great, so check it out, maybe? And feel free to send me AIR-related asks anytime!
> 
> ALSO, check out [this incredibly important gif](http://punkzucchini.tumblr.com/post/152831546046/ive-never-made-a-gif-before-but-i-believe-i-was) Punk made for this chapter. I've watched it at least twenty times. I suggest you do the same.
> 
> The art in this chapter was drawn by the fantastic [milkebox!](http://milkboxe.tumblr.com/post/153701294382/when-uve-hit-such-a-new-low-that-ur-back-into-hs-n)

Space Center Houston smells of old dust, recycled air, and well-tread carpet. Karkat’s nostrils twitch as he examines vintage space suits, archaic spacecraft, and interactive models. While he reads infographics about the ever expanding galaxy, the implosion of stars into supernovae, and the first missions to the moon, you sneak glances at him, trying to adjust to the sight of him in sunglasses that aren’t yours. He’d bought himself a pair at a convenience store on the way, and their plastic perch across his nose is still foreign to you.

“Is this museum meant for wrigglers?” he asks a few exhibits in, with no preamble.

You raise an eyebrow. “Naw, I’m pretty sure it’s all ages. Why, what’s up?”

“It’s just… basic,” he says. Not accusatory, not patronizing. Just confused, apparently. “A lot of this is basic fucking schoolfeeding. Rudimentary shit. Why bother writing it down unless it’s for wrigglers?”

“Woah, woah, hold up a second, troll Einstein,” you say, “are you seriously telling me troll kids run around the playground with a solid understanding of astrophysics?”

“And are _you_ seriously telling me that none of this,” he says, bewildered, gesturing to a model of the planets zooming around their elliptical orbits, “is part of basic human schoolfeeding?”

You blanch. “Uh, no? At least not in public school, it sure fucking wasn’t. Astronomy’s viewed as supplementary knowledge most of the time. Most people don’t take it ‘till college and even then it’s optional.”

“Jesus christ. How the hell did you flesh bags manage a treaty with the Empress, again?”

“A totally bitchin’ bomb, mostly,” you say. “Also, you guys are total sluts for your biotech.”

_“You_ guys can somehow make bombs that are ‘bitching,’ but don’t bother to teach your wrigglers basic star-stuff,” Karkat scoffs. “The day I understand humans is the day I die. I fucking mean it.”

“Dude, I am so getting that last bit inscribed on your headstone. I’ll even make sure and request it in my will, just in case I wither away in my rocking chair before you do.”

“My understanding of that sentence was fucking abysmal,” Karkat deadpans, then turns back around to squint at a display case.

You don’t bother explaining what a headstone is, or a rocking chair. Instead, you just grin at the back of his hoodie. The model of orbital motion catches your eye, and while you watch its little planets spin around their orbits, your mind wanders to that first, “bitchin’” bomb.

Primed for planetary genocide, the first Alternian battleship had charged into Earth orbit about five years ago. The ship hadn’t expected Earth, primed for extraterrestrial contact, to greet it upon arrival. It also hadn’t expected a preemptive nuclear strike from a planet so friendly when negotiations went awry.

The killers of the first aliens in recorded Earth history didn’t become death or the destroyer of worlds, not immediately. To the disbelieving eyes of the command center, Earth wasn’t even the destroyer of _hulls_ ; the outside of the ship had weathered the blast with nary a scratch. Complete radio silence was Earth’s only indication of victory.

When apprehensive human astronauts arrived to survey the damage, they found a ghost ship. Outside, the ship’s hull was barely dented; inside, total systems failure had transformed hundreds of trolls into horned popsicles. Alternian helmsman and the organic infrastructure they commanded, Earth discovered, could be crippled indefinitely with the electromagnetic pulse from a nuclear bomb. Heating, ventilation, pressurization, weapons, and even plumbing, all scrambled in one tremendous instant. Nearly every part of the fallen ship had been salvaged, analyzed, and cannibalized by enthusiastic Earth scientists by the time more Alternian battleships appeared a few AU askew Mars. Helpless without its helmsmen, the Alternian Empire signed the first truce in its long, bloody history with a tiny, watery world… and you, its terrifyingly innovative inhabitants.

Karkat breaks you out of your historical reverie. “Houston,” he says from somewhere behind you, “we have a fucking problem.”

You turn around. A laugh, loud and incredulous, bursts out of your mouth before you can stifle it. “Holy shit, dude.”

He’s standing next to a sign, hilariously outdated. _Could there be life on other worlds?_ it asks in bold, title text.

“Your scienterrorists were too busy hurting our ships,” Karkat drawls, “to update their museum.”

“Oh my god,” you say, then add, “stay there, don’t move.” You fish your phone out of your pocket and take a picture: Karkat, standing beside the sign with his arms crossed and a deep, disapproving frown on his face.

Snickering, you show him the screen. “This is going straight to the Space Center Houston instagram tag.”

“Good. Maybe they’ll finally update this piece of shit exhibit,” he huffs, but you can tell by the twitch at the corners of his mouth that he’s stifling laughter.

You start taking the exhibits less seriously, after that.

“Hey,” you say an hour later, after reading a particularly cheesy plaque about the Space Race, “wanna hear a joke?”

He looks up from where his nose is pressed to the glass of a nearby display case. “You’re going to tell me even if I say no,” he snorts, “so you may as well just do it.”

You just do it. “So here’s how it goes,” you begin, “one of NASA’s astronauts says hey, I need to take notes in space but my pen won’t work ‘cause, y’know, the ink flow gets royally fucked in zero gravity. So NASA says damn, dawg, you’ve got a point, and proceeds to funnel a cosmic fuckton of funds into designing a pen can take notes in the nastiest corners of the galaxy you can think of and then some. We’re talking a VIP here, Karkat, a _very important pen,_ the single most important pen to ever get clasped between the atrophied fingers of an astronaut. Shit’s downright revolutionary for space authors everywhere.”

“And?” Karkat prompts.

_“And,”_ you continue, “then NASA, being the smarmy dick it is, goes to its arch-nemesis Russia and says hey, check out our kickass new space pen. I bet ya’ll don’t have anything like it, what’s it like not being able to write jack shit in space? But instead of acting like they just got their asses handed to them, Russia just asks, kinda confused, hey, haven’t ya’ll heard of pencils?”

Karkat doesn’t react to the punchline. Instead, he looks smug. “You said it,” he says, pointing a finger at you, “you just fucking _said_ it.”

“Said what? A really lame space joke? Because I’ll be the first to admit that punchline was pretty lackluster. All the Strider seasoning in the world couldn’t’ve saved that one.”

“No, not the joke. _Ya’ll._ You said ‘ya’ll’.”

“What? No I didn’t.” You totally did. Your face feels warm. “That’d be asinine.”

“You said it,” Karkat insists, _“twice!_ I heard you. You _do_ have an accent, you Southern fuck. I knew it.”

“Man, whatever,” you mumble. You’ve always been embarrassed by your accent. In text chats and low-res video calls, it was easier to conceal; now, face-to-face, every ‘g’ left off, vowel drawled, and corny contraction is undeniable. Part of you is surprised at being relaxed enough to let your accent slip in public. The rest of you is just mortified.

Suddenly, something occurs to you. “You do realize that if I’ve got one, you’re gonna get one too, right?” you say.

“Never,” Karkat scoffs. “That is _never_ happening.”

“Bro, I’ve been your main conversational partner for the past three years and I’m gonna be for the indefinite future. So unless you get someone else to practice English with, you’re pretty much doomed to sound like a cow-wrangling dumbfuck.”

“Are you fucking kidding me.”

“That’s what NASA said,” you quip, “when Russia asked about the pencils.”

“And now I’m going to ask you to stop expelling nonsense out of your talk blaster,” Karkat says, but there’s amusement in the quirk of his lips, exasperated fondness in his voice. Verbal sparring with Karkat, you realize, is exhilarating and _safe_ in a way it’s never been with anyone, not even Rose.

You glance down at the Space Race plaque and imagine a different one. _Strider’s first law of interpersonal interaction: emotionally stunted, human Earth boys achieve conversational equilibrium through only the most ardent of alien pen pals._ You’re still imagining it as Karkat leads you deeper into the museum, determined to see everything.

Together you peer at the sterile guts of a space shuttle, brush curious fingers across the lunar touchstone, and gape at the mission control rooms, old and new. One exhibit is dark except for a few electronic plaques and hundreds of tiny, twinkling stars projected onto a wall. Seeing anything through the tint of your shades is a struggle, so you take them off, hooking them onto the collar of your shirt. Karkat takes his off, too. When he turns to look at you his eyes gleam like reflector tape, cat-like and more fascinating than anything in the entire museum.

The sight of him surrounded by the void of pretend-space calls to mind a question you’ve had for weeks. “What was space travel like?” you ask.

Contemplatory, he nibbles the inside of his cheek. “It was fucking exhausting,” he replies, “and boring. Especially going through gate space. At least in normal space you can watch stars go past.”

“Were you scared?” you blurt out.

To your relief, Karkat doesn’t look uncomfortable at the question, just pensive. “Yes,” he says, “but less scary than still being on Alternia. At least if I died in space, it would be on my own terms. And it…” He rubs at his arm, embarrassed. “It helped, knowing you were waiting for me. I kept thinking about how you’d be there to meet me when I finally landed.”

“Oh,” you say, at a loss for words. Your heart throbs in woozy time with the stars on the wall. Now, you think, would probably be a good time to hug him, if you knew how—if how much you want him closer didn’t terrify you. But the room is dark and empty, whatever happens in it a secret shared only between the two of you, and you are brazen with want and the idea of him, hurtling light years away from his home planet in a series of cloak-and-dagger spaceships and comforted somehow by the thought of _you._

He’s warm when you drape an arm around his shoulder and tug him into a side hug. You’re irrationally terrified he’s going to push you away for being too stiff, too saccharine. Instead, he wraps an arm around your waist and rests his head on your shoulder, one of his horns bumping against your ear.

“Thanks,” he says, “for taking me here. It’s really cool.”

“No prob, bro,” you reply, in a daze. In the dark quiet of the room, thoughts you’d normally suppress for being too tender or embarrassing flow unimpeded. You think his face looks gentle in profile. You think you’d be content to stand in this dark room indefinitely, as long as he stayed pressed to your side. You think you want him to slide his hand into the pocket of your hoodie. You think you want to show him the world.

Queasy with vulnerability, you pull away from him. You think it’s time to go to the next exhibit.

In the gift shop afterwards, Karkat peruses overpriced museum memorabilia and scowls at the price tags. He flicks through a rack of sweatshirts, his claws clicking against the plastic of the hangers, and tries and fails to wear a baseball cap over his horns. While he’s scrutinizing packets of freeze-dried ice cream, his back turned to you, you tiptoe to the snickering cashier behind the register and buy Karkat a shirt: a pink, women’s XXL with “Space Princess: Houston, Texas” printed on the front in white cursive.

You present it to him in the parking lot. Surprised, amused, and exasperated, he barks out a loud, sibilate noise that bounces off the concrete and startles the man parking next to you. On the ride home, he feigns exasperation, disparaging your “defective humor gland” and “willingness to spend money on inane bullshit,” but clutches the shirt close to his chest. His thumbs trace small, fond circles into the cotton. You can’t stop smiling.

That night, after you’ve settled in bed and Karkat is already snoring in his coon—his new bath mat laid out on the carpet, in preparation for the next morning—the thoughts you had in the starry room resurface. In particular, the one about showing him the world gnaws at you until you, too emotionally raw to resist, cave and compile a list of places on your phone. If you can’t show him the world, you decide, you can at least show him Texas.

***

After your last strife, Bro makes himself scarce. No sick beats drift out from underneath his door at night; no more invitations to strife are pinned to your door. After spending a few days ghosting around, leaving only trace evidence of his presence, he leaves the apartment entirely. He doesn’t take his favorite swords with him; instead, they remain mounted on the wall above his turntables, in the living room.

Heart palpitations and stomach cramps—the Pavlovian sequelae of nine years of early morning strifes—still greet you upon awakening. But as days pass and Bro’s favorite pair of spats remain absent from the doorway, your anxiety starts to recede. When he disappears, he tends to do it for weeks at a time. When you were younger, it used to frighten you. Now, with him absent from the apartment for the indeterminate future, you let yourself relax for the first time in weeks.

The days you and Karkat spend at home drag out warm, long, and sweet like taffy on a puller machine. Time slows to a crawl on these days, a welcome counterpart to the dynamic pacing of those you spend exploring the city. You buy another electric fan to cope with the August heat and leave it running twenty four hours a day. The humid air it pushes in your direction dries the sweat crawling down your neck and arms, and does little else.

Aliens are just as susceptible to summer ennui as humans are, you discover. On the days too oppressively hot to move, you sit with Karkat on your mattress, lean your sweaty backs against the wall, and select at random one of your playlists to listen to. By the third or fourth track you’re always horizontal, lying side-by-side on your mattress, the skin of your arms and shoulders electric wherever it brushes his. Together you consider the texture of your ceiling and have long, ambling conversations about nothing and everything.

A handful of times the two of you, drowsy from the heat, drift into unconsciousness while sharing your mattress. You blink awake with your arms wrapped around his waist and your nose pressed against his neck. He drools troll saliva, viscous and tacky, into your hair. Afterwards, you don’t mention the drooling, and he doesn’t mention the cuddling: a staunch, unspoken truce that leaves both your dignity and your impromptu siesta sessions intact.

You appropriate Bro’s futon and exhaust Netflix of every sci-fi classic you can think of that Karkat’s willing to tolerate. You skim seasons for their most inconsequential episodes and mock outrageous alien species and ludicrous technology for hours at a time.

“Man,” you complain, halfway through an episode of _Star Trek: The Next Generation_ , “why were we so fucking convinced aliens were gonna have a bunch of weird latex chunking up their faces?”

“‘Chunking up’?”

“Like, jutting out all impudently and stuff,” you clarify, then concede, “well, okay, I guess besides his chunky face, Warf isn’t that far off the mark. Fuck, wait, that isn’t it… Woof? Wolf? Okay, seriously, these assholes are running around with more than enough space on their spandex for a couple of nametags.”

“Who the hell are you even babbling about?”

You point at Lieutenant Worf. “That guy. Shouty alien with a short fuse, a xenocultural heritage that mistreats the shit out of him, and a secretly gooey interior. That’s pretty much you in a nutshell, dude.” You pause. “Well, minus the mullet and the Miss Galaxy sash made out of bottlecaps.”

“Oh please, I’m as much him and you’re _him,”_ Karkat snorts, pointing as the head engineer—George? Geoff? Gerald?—comes on screen. “Snarky, good with technology, wears a lot of red. A gigantic, obnoxiously attractive nerd with eyewear glued to his face.”

“Touche,” you say, then blink. “Wait, obnoxiously attractive? Seriously?”

Karkat keeps his eyes fixed on the screen, but his cheeks darken. “Anyone with functional gander bulbs can see you’ve got a half-decent face,” he deflects, waving a dismissive hand at you. “Don’t try to tell me you don’t know that, you arrogant asslord, I’ve seen all your selfies. I’ve been sleeping underneath them for almost two weeks now.”

A collection of selfies you took when you were thirteen are clipped to the clothesline above Karkat’s ‘coon. You’d almost forgotten they were there, you’ve had them clipped there for so long.

“Sounds like you’ve been admiring the view, bro,” you tease. Your skin is tingling in a way that’s not entirely unpleasant.

“The only thing it sounds like is _you,_ talking over this fucking episode,” Karkat growls, blotchy-cheeked and still refusing to look at you. He prods you with his elbow.

Your pinkie fingers brush when he returns his hand to its previous spot against the cushion, and you notice for the first time how close together you’re sitting. One or both of you must have migrated closer without thinking about it. _Strider’s second law of interpersonal interaction,_ you think: _the gravitational attraction between a human boy and his alien pen pal is directly proportional to the combined mass of their emotional baggage._ The thought leaves you feeling wobbly and vulnerable, dangling over a mental precipice you don’t want to face just yet.

You turn your attention back to the episode. If your face warms whenever the character Karkat attributed to you appears on screen, you refuse to acknowledge it.

***

You rouse yourselves early for a day trip to the beach. Karkat grouses about the early awakening but hauls himself into the passenger’s seat with little complaint. His beach outfit—the _Space Princess_ shirt you bought him and a pair of your shorts, since he lacks a pair of his own—is courtesy of you. Over the two hour drive the buildings grow shorter, the landscape flatter, and Karkat more jittery. His running derisive commentary on your fellow drivers and the scenery devolves from elaborate and witty to curt and lackluster. By now you’ve become well-acquainted with his nervous hands and the other mindless quirks he funnels his excess energy into, and he displays them all as you approach your destination. You watch as he fidgets in his seat, rubs his knuckles, picks at the undersides of his claws, itches the base of his horns, and traces his tongue over his canines until you’re as jumpy as he is.

“Dude, what gives?” you finally cave and ask, an hour and a half into the drive. Your chest feels tight. He’s barely glanced at you since you got into the car. Whatever it is, it must be your fault.

Karkat ceases fiddling with the volume knob on the radio. “What gives _what?”_ he demands, confused. “Am I supposed to give you something?”

“I’m just asking you what’s up, that’s all,” you explain, then bite the inside of your cheek. “Shit, that was another idiom. Uh, what I’m trying to say is… I’m just wondering what’s got you so fucking squirrely? You’ve been hotboxing my truck with your anxiety for almost an hour now and I’m getting secondhand jitters.”

“I’m familiar with ‘what’ is up,” Karkat says, rolling his eyes. But he looks as guilty as he does surly, and your heart sinks. It really is your fault, then.

“Sorry,” you blurt out.

“What?”

Your grip tightens on the steering wheel. “For making you nervous, or whatever. I’ll quit bugging you about it.”

“That’s not—”

“Or you could tell me how I fucked up and I’ll cut it out ASAP,” you babble, “no questions asked, whatever you wanna do is cool with me—”

Karkat interrupts you before you can talk yourself into a nervous stupor. “It’s not you!” he snarls. “It’s the goddamn _beach.”_

You blink at him, lost and straining towards a frazzled understanding. “You have a fear of the ocean or something, dude?” you chance.

“More like the murderous assholes living in it!” Karkat explodes like he’s been waiting for an invitation. “I mean, fuck, coming even remotely close to the ocean on Alternia would’ve been a formal invitation for the nearest seadweller to come and disembowel you. If you had no fins at the beach you had a death wish, which I definitely do not have.”

“But this isn’t an Alternian beach, man,” you say, “this is an _Earth_ beach. The worst thing we’ve got is sharks and they don’t attack based on your social standing.”

The guilt on Karkat’s face, momentarily forgotten, returns in full force. “I _know,”_ Karkat groans, “I know that and I’m _still_ straining my anguish bladder over it anyways.”

“Bro, if you’re that scared of the beach, you could’ve told me,” you say. “We could’ve gone somewhere else instead.”

“And ruin it for you, too? No fucking way,” Karkat retorts. “You were excited about this trip, Dave. You _still_ are, don’t try to tell me you aren’t.”

“Yeah,” you admit, “but I’m not gonna be excited if you’re all freaked out. Which, by the way, doesn’t make you some kind of selfish, ruinous asshole. It just makes a normal dude with a couple perfectly reasonable cultural hangups.”

“But you said this is your first time seeing the sea,” Karkat insists. “You should go with someone who can appreciate it.”

“But I don’t _wanna_ go with anyone else,” you blurt out. “This is your first time seeing the sea too and there’s no one else I wanna get sand up my asscrack with but _you.”_

With a decisive click, Karkat’s jaw snaps shut. He stares at you, and in the silence that ensues, you crumble.

“We could just go somewhere else?” you suggest, “like, I think the zoo’s open. We could go get our gander on at some giraffes or something. I’m pretty sure Alternia didn’t have giraffes. It’d be hells of educational.”

“No,” Karkat says. His clenches his hands against his jeans, his claws biting into the denim. “I still want to do this. I am _going_ to fucking do this, Dave.”

“You sure?”

“Yes.”

You watch the landscape roll past, your insides squirming. “Okay.”

Karkat nods. His brows are pinched with thought, or maybe frustration as he looks at you and then down at his lap. Time passes by, weighted and slow, until he turns to look at you again.

“If it’s you, I’ll tell you,” he says, solemn and looking like he’s issued an incredibly important mandate.

If he did, you didn’t understand it. “What?” you say.

“If… _fuck…_ if you ever do something...” he trails off, searching for the right word, his dictionary face returning in full. You’re reminded of the hours you used to spend in early high school, watching his chumhandle blink as he struggled to conjugate simple verbs and use even the basest profanity, and are struck by how surreal it is that he’s here with you now, talking about feelings, forty miles from the Gulf of Mexico.

“If you ever do something shitty, I’ll tell you, right away,” he finally articulates, “and you should do the same thing for me.”

Relief cascades down your spine.“Sounds good,” you reply, because it really does. He’ll tell you if he’s upset and it’s your fault. You won’t have to guess with him like you do with your bro; you won’t have to translate unpredictable bouts of silence and absence into anticipation for a strife.

Your toes prickle with relief in your shoes. Your hands relax against the steering wheel. You exhale, roll down the windows, taste the first hints of salt on the breeze, and listen as Karkat recounts a dozen marine horror stories he heard from his friends and lusus. When you pull into a parking spot at the beach, he’s just finished regaling a cautionary tale about a crew of FLARPers and a hungry sea goat. Sand crunches underneath your tires, then underneath the soles of your shoes as you climb out of your truck.

Karkat face is nervous, but his posture is determined as he marches through the sand, seaweed, and driftwood to reach the shoreline. A foot shy of the tide, he stands rigid and watches as you take off your shoes and socks like you’ve seen people do on TV. A few seconds later, he bends down to follow your example with clumsy fingers.

The tide licks at your toes, which you wiggle further into the sand. The beach shifts underneath you. You’re mesmerized, but not as much as Karkat, who’s watching the seawater recede between his toes with a look of wide-eyed wonder, his anxiety momentarily forgotten.

“Wanna go in deeper?” you suggest. The drag of water across the tops of your feet is delicious, and you want more.

He stiffens, and his pupils contract. “Fuck no.”

“Seriously?” you say, then, after a moment, “ _Sea_ riously?”

His frown twitches at the corners at your pun. “If you feel like offering your gross flesh to whatever awful ocean beasts your planet has to offer, you can go in deeper,” he says, “but I’m keeping my walk stalks parked right here. Hell, even _this_ negligible depth is making my posture pole prickle.”

Impervious to any persuasion to wade out deeper, Karkat lingers at the shoreline, content to examine seashells and squat with the tide creaming around at his ankles. You wade in up to your thighs and stare at the rippling plane of blue ahead of you, stretching infinitely far into the horizon. Before you’ve fully appreciated the view, something slick and cold brushes against your ankle. Unsettled, all of the Alternian sea stories from earlier replaying into your head, you turn your back on the view, and stride back to shore to build a sandcastle.

While constructing your first castle, you accidentally fling sand into Karkat’s mouth. As an apology, you let him shove sand into your shorts. You are forced to reconsider your earlier statement about wanting to get sand up your asscrack.

You stay on the beach until Karkat runs out of sunscreen to reapply. Sunburned and satisfied, you lead the way back to your truck. Your drive home is much more relaxing than your drive there, and you listen to the radio and watch the scenery roll by in comfortable silence.

The seawater has left the skin of your hands and feet chalky-soft. Karkat runs curious fingertips over the skin of his palms and scrapes grains of sand out from underneath his claw-tips with careful precision. You smile, relish the prickle of sand between your toes, and ask him if he wants to stop by _Whataburger_ again.

***

Karkat introduces domesticity to you like an alien pathogen, infecting you with it through prolonged contact. Its symptoms manifest in the material minutia of your life, spreading unimpeded in the tiny, shared space of your apartment. His toothbrush spoons yours on the sink ledge; his clothes hang in your closet; his dirty laundry mingles with yours in piles on the floor until one of you convinces the other to make the trek to the laundry room. Existing in tandem with someone is new and exhilarating, and you quietly revel in every joint trip to the grocery store and squabble over the bathroom like the exotic delicacies they are. The realization that you’ll be sharing a dorm with him in a month only adds to your excitement; you’d solidified your living arrangements with your university as soon as Karkat received his scholarship.

Waking up to the sight of him—wild-haired, puffy-eyed, and still soft with sleep in the ‘coon you bought for him—makes your blood feel like it’s been carbonated, rushing light and bubbly through your veins. Even after a week passes, the feeling persists. By the second week, you’ve learned to look forward to it upon waking.

***

“What the fresh fuck is that,” Karkat asks, pointing an emphatic claw at Big Tex. Looming 55 horrific feet above your heads, the Texas State Fair’s infamous cowboy statue and marketing icon bares its teeth at you in a manic, marionette smile.

“That,” you say, throwing an arm over Karkat’s shoulder, “is Big Tex, also known as the biggest cowboy in the entire world.”

“That,” Karkat snaps back, unsettled, “is the biggest cowboy in the _entire goddamn galaxy,_ and also the biggest affront to my eyes your miserable planet has subjected to me thus far.”

“‘Thus far’? Dude, this is the _state_ fair, not the renaissance fair,” you joke, but he’s right—Big Tex, even from the distance you’re at, unsettles you with its mechanical mouth and rigid, fiberglass skin. You look past it, towards the distant loops and curves of a ferris wheel and a family of roller coasters. “So… you up to going on any rides today?”

“Rides? On what?”

“Like, roller coasters and ferris wheels and stuff.”

He squints at it. As he does, his pupils dilate, the black of them seeping into the gold of his sclera like ink. You wonder if his distance vision is better than yours. “Oh,” he says eventually, “Alternia didn’t have those. I’ve never tried them before.”

“Me neither,” you admit, “but we don’t have to if they freak you out or something.”

Karkat bristles. "I survived _space travel._ I can take anything your squishy, stupid species designed to tickle your diminutive danger glands and more.” His lips form ‘diminutive’ with careful precision. You’d high-five him over how much his pronunciation has improved this past week if it wouldn’t make him self-conscious.

“I’m gonna hold you and your astronaut status to that when we go on an upside down ride, bro,” you say, glib. He rolls his eyes at you, and then together you plunge into the pandemonium that is the Texas State Fair.

The fairground clamor is overwhelming at first. The smell of foods you’ve never had before overtake your nostrils. Barbecue smoke makes your eyes water; gravel and kettle corn crunch underfoot. Country music—live _and_ broadcasted over speakers—and the chatter of passersby by swamp your ears. Strangers jostle and brush against you in the crowd. Seemingly too small to process so much sensory information, your head spins. You take a deep breath, summon all the swagger you use to stroll the crowded sidewalks back home in Houston, and point things out to Karkat to distract yourself as you brave the crowd. Throughout it all, Karkat stays close to you, his fingers occasionally brushing yours and his horns bright in your peripheral vision.

You watch him for signs of anxiety or discomfort—you’ve been in crowds with him before, but nowhere this congested—and are impressed to find none. His shoulders squared, chin held high, and eyes bright, he walks beside you with an almost-demanding curiosity. He samples the smells of corn-on-the-cob, pulled pork, kettle corn, ice cream, candied apples, and sausage on a stick with his nostrils flared comically wide; he furrows his brow at performance artists; he runs aggressive, disbelieving hands across gargantuan, award-winning produce. You present him with a roasted turkey leg and he tears into it like you posed him a personal challenge. Watching him approach tourism like a game to be won is as entertaining as it is endearing.

He keeps a wide berth around strangers and strangers keep a wide berth around the two of you. Children point at him and their harried parents fumble to redirect their little fingers, then sneak glances themselves. Karkat reacts with raised eyebrows or a pointed stare; you prickle at the attention, and try your best to ignore it by focusing on Karkat. Going on rides is welcome reprieve from the eyes burning into your backs.

Rickety, wooden roller coasters with dubious structural integrity. Chair swing rides carouseling 200 feet in the air. Pirate ships that swing from side to side, axe-like. Bumper cars with suspiciously sticky seats. Sleek, modern rides whose twists-and-turns take you upside-down in merciless succession. You take turns tugging each other by the shirtsleeve to ride after ride until your heads are swimming with vertigo and you’ve boarded them all. You bite on the inside of your cheek to smother all of your screams. Despite your best efforts, a few genuine barks of surprise escape your mouth, anyways. Karkat doesn’t notice, or care: he’s too busy screaming his lungs raw. The noise that tears itself out of his throat sounds like a cicada being strangled via microphone. The looks your fellow riders, wide-eyed and stupefied by the sound, direct your way make both of you, wild and slap-happy with adrenaline, laugh until your ribs ache.

Your last rollercoaster snaps a complimentary, candid photo of the two of you during a particularly thrilling drop: him, screaming with all of his fangs on display and his eyes bulbous with terror and you, staring at him with a grin on your face and your eyebrows raised, incredulous at the unearthly sound of him. You buy a copy on sight. Karkat attempts to protest your purchase, and fails miserably because of how hard he’s laughing.  
Halfway through the day—after you’ve gaped at livestock and a lasso show—you buy him an elephant ear, dripping butter and cinnamon-sugar onto the grease-stained paper towel it came in. Karkat picks it up with both hands and eviscerates the deep-fried dough like a shark, jerking his head back and forth. His canines glint in the hot sun. Anxious and intrigued, your fellow fairgoers, with careful footsteps and not-so-furtive looks, creep past the bench you’re occupying. Several of them glare outright, and their sharp, xenophobic disapproval makes you burn.

You buzz not with discomfort but anger, sizzling in your throat until you’re stiff and hot with it. Indignant on Karkat’s behalf, you shift in your seat, spread your legs, and rest a possessive arm on the back of the bench: all passive-aggressive "just try to harass my alien friend and see what happens" challenge. Rose would be proud, you think. Oblivious and utterly enraptured by his elephant ear, Karkat licks cinnamon-sugar from between his fingertips and purrs just loud enough for you to hear over the cacophony of the fairgrounds. No one harrasses him, or you. The happy rumble of him next to you, you decide, is the only thing that matters, anyways.

Before you leave the fairgrounds, Karkat makes a spontaneous purchase: a simple, brown cowboy hat, with a braided chinstrap and pinched front to encapsulate his horns. In combination with his shades, his hat makes him look like a belligerent, extraterrestrial sheriff. You take a selfie with him in his new hat and post it to your Instagram, which has shifted in the past week from a gallery of your face to a gallery of his.

The drive back to Houston feels like victory. Sticky with sugar and sweat, you tap a soft, satisfied melody against the steering wheel and sneak glances at Karkat, who’s slumped in the passenger’s seat with his shoes kicked off and his double-jointed toes pressed against the dashboard. His eyelashes are ridiculously long in profile. You’ve just caught yourself admiring the dark sweep of them when he turns to you and grins. Shaded by his hat, his smile is loose, warm, and toothy with content. You feel like you’re on another roller coaster: weightless, all of your soft parts accelerating at an equal rate, free-falling and absolutely, terrifyingly giddy with it.

Equally content, you grin back at him. If he notices your smile is a little motion sick, he doesn’t mention it.

***

The next morning, Karkat oversleeps. You linger in bed, content to let him rest. Your feet still ache from yesterday, and you know the frackas of the fairgrounds exhausted him, too. Last night, he’d been visibly fatigued, declining your offer of a movie before bed to hit the slime early. The first hour in bed you pass by scrolling through your phone, the second by messaging Rose and Jade. Apparently too exhausted to even snore, Karkat dozes with deep, even breaths and doesn’t stir, even when you accidentally play a video at full volume.

After three hours, you tire of waiting for him to wake on his own accord. You’re planning to take him to the aquarium today, and you’re antsy to depart before traffic becomes insufferable. You slide out of bed to stand next to his ‘coon and, upon seeing his sleeping face, fail to suppress a smile.

“Yo, sleeping beauty,” you say, gently shaking his shoulder, “time to get your soggy ass up before it prunes.”

He doesn’t respond.

You snort and shake him again, slightly harder this time. “C’mon, man, up and at ‘em, we’ve got fish to harass. You can get your snooze on in the car.”

Still no response.

Your skin erupts into goosebumps. “Seriously, bro, wake up,” you urge, grabbing him by both shoulders. This time, you shake him hard enough to make his head rock. His face doesn’t even twitch. “Hey.”

A ball of something cold and leaden has started to form in your gut. His head, weak with sleep, lolls forward until his chin touches his chest.

“Karkat? Dude, _c’mon,_ this isn’t fucking funny. Seriously, you can sleep in the car… hey. _Karkat.”_

His eyes remain closed. You raise a hand to his face, poking his nose—and then, when that fails to garner a reaction, swatting him on the cheek.

Nothing happens.

Your throat feels tight, your fingers are trembling. You think you might throw up. “Karkat,” you babble, _“Karkat,_ hey, Karkat. _Fuck._ Karka—”

From the living room, you hear a quiet click: the front door unlocking, your bro finally coming home after two weeks of absence. Your words wither and die in your throat.

Bro’s going to initiate a strife, you know that, he _always_ does when he comes home and he _always_ hurts you the worst after long periods of leave because he _always_ knows, somehow, just how much fucking relief you find at the lack of him and he’s punishing you for it, he’s going to snuff you out against the pavement because you’ve _always been such an ungrateful little bastard, haven’t you, lil’ man, c’mon, show some goddamn conviction for once in your despicable, pussy existence and admit it to my fucking face—_

Nauseous with panic, you stare at Karkat’s impassive, comatose face. His inhales and exhales are perfectly spaced. As you draw your hand away from him, your palm catches on the edge of something dry and rough: a huge, mica-like flake of his skin, thin in width and coarse around the edges. As you drag your fingertips against it, it falls like ash from his cheek, exposing tender, darker skin underneath. With unfocused vision, you watch its descent and it is _cataclysmic,_ a shift of tectonics instead of epidermis. Even when he was sunburned, Karkat’s skin didn’t peel. You have no idea what to think of this. You have no idea _how_ to think right now, if you’re even thinking at all.

With an all-too familiar _thwack,_ a strife invitation is pinned to your door.

You kneel in front of Karkat’s ‘coon, press your forehead against its purple chitin, and shake yourself to pieces.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Here's Karkat's new shirt.](http://ep.yimg.com/ay/spacetrader/yth-aparrel-and-tees-4.jpg)


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Content warnings: child abuse, two instances of vomit, a little bit of cigarette smoking, mild body horror

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A couple notes before this monster of a chapter gets started...
> 
> If you want to draw fan art for this fic, go ahead! No need to ask permission... just make sure and link it to me in a comment here, so Punk and I can properly freak out over it. Like the original comic, Dave has no set race/body type in this fic (I've left it purposefully ambiguous, or at least tried to), so feel free to draw him however you wish. For personal, comfort-related reasons, though, I'm going to ask that you don't post nsfw fan art (i.e. porn) of this fic. Sorry.
> 
> Here's some fan art by some incredibly kind and talented artists!:
> 
> [Karkat at the beach](https://pulsenhaze.tumblr.com/post/161571870143/threshcadet-thepisslord-drew-a-little-thing)
> 
> [Dave and Karkat's state fair selfie (now embedded in the actual chapter, too!)](https://pulsenhaze.tumblr.com/post/161571878358/threshcadet-milkboxe-when-uve-hit-such-a-new)
> 
> [Karkat at the museum](https://pulsenhaze.tumblr.com/post/161571882313/threshcadet-dualityskritchbook-for)
> 
> [Shades exchange at the airport](https://pulsenhaze.tumblr.com/post/161571911268/threshcadet-aimi-sam-davekat-from)
> 
> [Dave at the airport](https://pulsenhaze.tumblr.com/post/161571913768/threshcadet-actual-mothman-overcome-with)
> 
> [Punk's _incredible_ beefkat sketches](https://pulsenhaze.tumblr.com/post/161571906353/punkzucchini-threshcadet-punkzucchini)
> 
> Infinite thanks to everyone who contributed! ♥♥♥

“Quit being such a little bitch and fight me,” Bro says. **  
**

Your forearm is stinging. Less than two minutes into the strife and he’s already hurt you; you can feel the edges of each cut snag on the cotton of your sleeves. In defense, you hold your sword in front of you, ready to parry his next attack. Your spinal cord is one giant fault line; your every atom is quaking with terror, with rage, with anticipation. He’s keeping you away from Karkat, and you’ve never despised him more than you do now, in this moment, on this accursed rooftop.

“If you want it so bad,” you snarl, twitching the tip of your sword at him, your voice shaking, “come fuck yourself on it.”

Bro peers down at you with his hermetic seal of a face, his weapon grasped in his big, steady hands. The air between you and him is boiling. Your skin erupts into goosebumps, your palms slick themselves anew with sweat—

And then he’s lunging towards you, the hilt of his sword a blur as it smashes into your right eye, and your perception of the world flares and burns out like filament.

***

You stumble back into your apartment in a fugue-state, the connection between your body and your brain dull and muted after a truly monumental ass-beating. When you finally come back to yourself, you do so with a lurch. Pain swells and bursts throughout your body like fireworks. You have just enough time to acknowledge you’re standing in front of the bathroom sink before you’re vomiting into it.

Afterwards, you turn on the faucet and gargle with tepid tap water. Glassy-eyed, you watch your bile slither down the drain. The texture of your sink’s chipped enamel is grounding, and for a few desperate, self-indulgent seconds, you press your fingertips into it until your nailbeds ache to reorient yourself. Eventually, the roaring in your ears clears, replaced by the sound of your own haggard breathing.

Your face in the mirror, bloody-nosed, black-eyed, and gaunt with fear, makes more bile rise in your throat. In some places, you’ve already bled through your clothing; your jeans and shirt sleeves are mottled with coin-sized blotches of red. Instead of gagging again, you yank the medicine cabinet open, the mirror on its door swinging to the side and carrying your Quasimodo reflection with it. You don’t have time to stare, don’t have time for even a cursory glance at your hurts. You have to return to Karkat. You have to keep him safe. You have to _fix this,_ whatever this is, you have to wake him up somehow because you’re not sure what you’ll do if you can’t, you’re not sure you’ll be able to do _anything ever again_ if he doesn’t wake up—

Your chest spasms without your consent, and you gulp in a breath. The air burns in your lungs like smoke. You hadn’t realized you’ve been holding your breath. Your black eye throbs and the pain is sharp and bright, hijacking your attention, forcing you back into focus.

A flicker of your fingertips across the bridge of your nose tells you it isn’t broken; a glance at your arms and legs reveals nothing that can’t be pinched shut later with a butterfly bandage. From the medicine cabinet, you snag a tube of disinfectant, a fistful of various bandages, and a bottle of off-brand ibuprofen tablets. Then you’re stumbling out of the bathroom and into your bedroom, locking the door behind you and letting the first aid supplies tumble to the carpet as you rush to Karkat’s side.

He’s just as you left him fifteen minutes ago, fast asleep with his head lolled forward and his face neutral. You kneel in front of his ‘coon and press shaking fingers to his neck, measuring his pulse, terrified of what you’ll find. His heart thumps steadily underneath your fingertips, in stark juxtaposition to your own hummingbird heartbeat.

“Hey,” you choke out. Your throat is tight and hot with panic. “Hey, Karkat. Wake up.” You shake his shoulder again. He’s just as unresponsive as last time.

For a moment, your frazzled brain suggests calling 911, or loading him into your truck and driving him to the emergency room. You jerk towards his suitcase to grab his documentation—you’ll need to present it to the hospital staff—but freeze as soon as you have it in your hands. You don’t know the extent of his mutation: how or even _if_ it’ll interact with conventional treatment, treatment most Earth hospitals don’t offer. The biotechnology troll medicine relies upon has yet to be approved for use in human hospitals, and differences in biology render human-style treatments dangerously experimental. Most human hospitals view trolls as malpractice suits waiting to happen, and exercise their legal right to turn non-humans away.

Your stomach roils. You search for a troll-friendly clinic in your city, then in your area, then in your entire _state,_ and come up empty. You look up the nearest human hospital and calculate the odds of Karkat, ambiguously mutated as he is, not only being admitted but receiving safe care. You consider how unconscious he is, how unable to consent he'll be to any experimental treatment they decide to attempt. You imagine the terrible tabloid the two of you might paint: you, visibly beaten and him, comatose, both of you defenseless against accusations of interspecies assault that could revoke his residency in a heartbeat.

With a shuddery breath, you let his papers fall between your fingers. Whatever this is, the hospital won’t—can’t—be the solution.

Aching with helplessness, you place a hand on his shoulder and knead at the flesh there, trying to rub cognizance into him, to draw out answers from his skin. Your vision swims, enough that you nearly miss the flake of skin jarred loose by your touch.

It’s an even bigger flake that last time, easily the size of your palm and as thick as your fingernail. Lost and disturbed, you examine the newly exposed flesh. It’s dark and slimy, like the patch revealed on his cheek. A possible explanation strikes you, jolting you into action. Something Karkat alluded to a few times, something mentioned once or twice in the movies he’s shown you…

Vibrating with possibility, you scramble to your desk. You flop into your computer chair and shake your desktop awake. In your haste, your knees knock against your desk, causing two empty apple juice bottles next to your keyboard to tumble to the carpet. You ignore them, too busy opening human Google in one tab and troll Google in another.

Five searches, seven minutes, and six pages of search results later, you are shaking with frightened, frightening possibility. To confirm, you log into Pesterchum and open a memo. As you type, your fingers dancing across the keys, you lick your upper lip and taste blood on your cupid’s bow. Jade isn’t online. To your immense relief, John and Rose are.

**~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~**

turntechGodhead [TG] opened memo on board xenofriends anonymous: session two. 

TG: i need yall to get your trolls in this chat asap

EB: what?

TG: somethings wrong with karkat

TG: hes completely fucking comatose and his skin is peeling and i dont know what to do

EB: oh shit.

EB: why are you talking to us then! hurry up and take him to the hospital, dumb ass!

TG: i wish i could but i thought about it real hard and its out of the goddamn question

TG: i cant even fucking begin to get into it right now but just trust me when i say the reasons i cant take him to the er could fill an olympic size pool 

TT: If this has something to do with documentation, his life’s more important than his visa.

TG: i fucking KNOW that okay  his visas practically my smallest concern right now since hes

TG: i just

TG: ...

TG: fuck

TT: Dave.

TG: look i know i sound like ive done some kinda acrobatic fucking pirouette off the handle and landed ass backwards in a pile of shitty decision making right now but i promise if i take him to the hospital hes gonna get even more fucked than he is already in a motherfucking myriad of ways so PLEASE just go and get your trolls

TG: his heartbeats steady his temperatures normal his breathings easy and according to troll google hes balls deep in some kinda funky insectoid nightmare molt and if i dont get more info asap im going to completely and irreversibly lose my shit

TT: ... Alright, I’m getting Kanaya.

EB: ugh, okay! FINE!

EB: i still think this is INCREDIBLY STUPID, but i will go and get terezi!

TG: thank fucking god

TT: Hello Dave

TG: uh

TT: Oh

TT: Um Wait

\-- tentacleTherapist [TT] is now grimAuxiliatrix [GA] \--

GA: There

GA: Now What Is This About Karkat Molting

TG: sup kanaya

TG: thats what im trying to find out

TG: he was totally fine twelve hours ago when he climbed into his coon but now hes refusing to wake up no matter what i do and his skins peeling off in flakes

GA: How Is The Skin Underneath

TG: dark and really fucking slimy

TG: according to my preliminary finger prods its a little tougher than his usual skin too but idk

\-- ectoBiologist [EB] is now gallowsCalibrator [GC] \--

GC: SOUNDS L1K3 4 MOLT TO M3

TG: hey tz

TG: yeah thats what troll google said too but apparently those dont happen for at least two more sweeps

GA: It Is Uncommon But Not Unheard Of For Lowblooded Trolls To Molt Early

GA: Hello Terezi

GC: H3LLO

GC: 1T SM3LLS L1K3 D3SP3R4T1ON 4ND F34R SW34T 1N H3R3

TG: thanks its my new karkat inspired line of perfume i call it eau du shitflip

TG: its limited edition this season so youd best hoard a bunch of those mini sample bottles for the huffing while theyre still hot and my sympathetic nervous systems still handing out panic like cheap cigars

GA: The Myriad Of Circumstances In Which Human Sarcasm Manages To Persist Continues To Perplex and Astound Me

GC: >:]

TG: so you both definitely think hes molting then

GA: While Exceedingly Early It Is Not Impossible And With The Symptoms You Described It Seems Likely

GA: But The Timing Suggests Future Difficulty

GA: It Will Be A Hard Molt

GC: 4GR33D!

GC: H3 W1LL H4V3 TO F1GHT NUBBY TOOTH 4ND 3XQU1S1T3LY M4N1CUR3D CL4W TO G3T OUT OF TH1S

TG: shit

TG: okay

TG: how can i make it easier then

TG: i couldnt find jack shit on the entire troll or human internet besides “slather in slime and wait” and i feel like im about to bake a particularly fucked up cake

GC: M4YB3 B3C4US3 TH4T 1S 4LL TH3R3 13 TO 1T?

GC: >:?

TG: im calling bullshit

TG: this is a major part of your species life cycle theres gotta be so much more to this than a vague time frame and some half assed instructions to moisturize

TG: either im a chump who cant utilize basic search engines or your species sucks a truly ridiculous amount of ass at understanding their own biology and since i just perused a good six pages of subpar search results in both languages im gunning for the latter

GC: TROLLS WHO SURV1V3 TH31R F1RST 4DULT MOLT C4NT DOCUM3NT 4 PROC3SS TH3Y W3R3 3NT1R3LY UNCONSC1OUS FOR 4ND L4RG3LY UN4BL3 TO 4NT1C1P4T3, 3V3N 1F TH3Y W4NT3D TO

GC: 4ND TH3 ON3S TOO W34K TO SURV1V3 TH31R MOLT OBV1OUSLY L4CK TH3 4B1L1TY TO RECORD WH4T W3NT WRONG, 4ND W3R3 FUND4M3NT4LLY UNF1T TO S3RV3 TH3 3MP1R3, B3SID3S

GC: SO TH4T R34LLY 1S 4LL TH3R3 1S TO 1T!

GC: 4S TH3 34RTH 1D1OM GO3S, D4V3

GC: 1TS NOT TH4T D33P

GC: K4RK4T W1LL 31TH3R SURV1V3 TH1S OR H3 W1LL NOT, 4ND TH3R3 1S NOTH1NG 4NX1OUS HUM4N COOLK1DS C4N DO TO CH4NG3 TH4T

TG: fuck

GA: I Agree

GA: As Unfortunate As It Is We Will All Just Have To Wait On Tenterhooks For Our Dear Friends Indefinite Future

TG: …

GC: ...

GA: Are We All Typing Finish Crumbs Now

GA: …

GA: Was That Sufficient

TG: omg

GC: DUB1OUS S3NT3NC3 CRUMBS AS1D3

GC: 1F 4NYON3 1S STUBBORN 3NOUGH TO COM3 OUT OF A PR3M4TUR3 MOLT R33K1NG OF BL4CK L1COR1C3 1NST34D OF H4LF B4K3D D34TH, 1T 1S K4RK4T!

GC: >:]

TG: i

TG: yeah

TG: yeah thats right

TG: dudes too fucking stubborn to let a little surprise puberty drag him down

GA: Aside From The Tips You Have Already Read Online I Also Suggest Helping Him To Shed His Skin If He Has Any Difficulty

GA: The Epidermis Is Already Dead So Do Not Fret About Hurting Him

GA: I Assume It All Needs To Come Off For His Adult Skin To Survive

GC: SOUND 4DV1C3 FROM M1SS P3PP3RM1NT PUR33!

GC: G4TH3R1NG 4N 4SSORTM3NT OF PROT31N FOR H1S 3V3NTU4L 4W4K3N1NG 1S 4DV1S4BL3 4S W3LL

GC: 4FT3R SUCH 4N 4RDUOUS PROC3SS 1 1M4G1N3 H3 W1LL B3 R4V3NOUS 4ND 4 HUNGRY 4DULT 1S NOT SOM3TH1NG 31TH3R OF US CAN H3LP YOU D34L W1TH

TG: i seriously doubt hes gonna wake up and vore me but ill stockpile some protein bars just in case

GA: What Is A Vore

TG: uh

GA: Im Human Googling It

GA: Oh

GC: >:?

GA: Wow

GC: >:? >:?

TG: thanks for the help yall ill keep you posted

turntechGodhead [TG] closed memo on board xenofriends anonymous: session two.

**~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~**

You wilt in your chair, sagging against the cracked leather. Now that you have an explanation and instructions, something tentative, almost like relief, ripples you through you in waves. It clears your head, unclenches your jaw. Still seated, you kick your chair—its wheels stuttering over the cords on your floor—to Karkat’s side. Cupping sopor in your unbloodied hand and letting it escape between your fingers, you glaze his skin, lathering the areas with the most flaking. The process is mindless, and as you work, the anxious churning in your stomach lessens, lulled into complacency by the simple repetition.

Now that Karkat’s attended to, your adrenaline dissipates, leaving you boneless and suddenly, painfully aware of your own injuries. You wince as you lean down to retrieve the medical supplies from the floor. Swallowing two off-brand ibuprofen tablets dry, you examine the worst cuts Bro has left you: one on your collarbone, several on your shins and forearms, and a deep one in the uppermost crease of your pinky that’s still stinging like a motherfucker. They’ve already begun to clot, slowing their bleeding to a thick, sluggish trickle.

The slicing of your skin is neat, almost surgical. Ever since that jagged cut on your hip, your bro has hurt you with cold, calculated precision. Deliberate and premeditated as they are, your scars can be easily attributed to self-harm, or surgery. You grit your teeth, smear disinfectant on your wounds, and pinch them shut with butterfly bandages. You limp out to the kitchen, snag an ice pack from the freezer, and press it to your eye. The cold stings, bringing tears to your eyes, and you blink them away.

You spend the rest of the day sitting on your bed, your back slumped against the wall and your gaze fixed on Karkat. You get up for bathroom breaks and to replace your ice pack, but are otherwise too drained to leave your mattress. To pass the time, you alternate between napping and browsing social media on your phone until your eyes feel dull and your head feels heavy.

Over the next twelve hours, Karkat stirs occasionally, tossing and turning in what you assume is discomfort and hope isn’t pain. He grunts once or twice at the beginning, but eventually quiets. His lips still move but produce no sound, as if muted by an invisible chrysalis.

You talk to him anyways.

“Hey, dude,” you say, kneeling at his side, swirling a finger in his slime. It’s warm from his body heat. “So I talked to Terezi and Kanaya, and apparently I’ve just gotta let this bug shit run its nasty, natural course. No pressing ‘B’ on this evolution, I guess.” You try to chuckle but it comes out wet, strangled. A lump lodged itself in your throat hours ago, and forcing words past it is a struggle. You have to swallow twice, your throat clicking with the effort, before you can speak again.

“But I’m just letting you know I’m here, and stuff,” you say, stilted but earnest. “And I’m not going anywhere, I promise. My ass is still gonna be parked in this exact spot when you wake up, so it’s cool. Well, shit, fine, maybe it’s not cool right now, but it will be, I think? Eventually. So just focus on being a gross insect for now, and don’t worry about it.”

Your tongue feels bloated and clumsy with affection. You trail off, lost in your examination of his unconscious face. The thick, dark sweep of his eyelashes still makes your heart thump as hard as it had on the drive home from the fair. You sync your inhales with his and eye his hand: submerged in slime, pruned and cracking at the creases but still tempting to hold.

Your eye throbs; your ribs ache. Your body is too battered and your mind too frayed to defend itself against this, too. You reach into his ‘coon, extract his hand, and slot your fingers together.

The slime has softened his callouses. If you concentrate, you can feel his heartbeat in the webbing between his fingers. Even in this dismal context, the warm weight of his hand in yours is more gorgeous, more gratifying than even your most surreptitious daydreams. Your palms brush and press together in something like a kiss and it is incredible, ambrosial, the tenderest thing you’ve ever allowed yourself to take. The thought of Karkat willingly _giving_ this to you someday, somehow, is so incredible it overwhelms you. You give his hand an involuntary squeeze.

“Sorry,” you mumble, your face hot and your eyes prickling with something terribly close to tears. Your grip on his hand tightens. “You can give me all the shit you want for this when you wake up. Or you can wake up _now_ and give me shit for it, if you want. That’d be dope as fuck.”

His face doesn’t even twitch. The lump in your throat is leaden. You swallow around it, rub tiny, lavish circles into the back of his hand with your thumb, and settle in for an indefinite wait.

***

For the next week, his skin sloughs off his expanding body in thick, fleshy sheets, dropping into his slime. Splotchy and unevenly colored, he looks like a printer test page, like a stone statue with vitiligo. The skin in stubborn areas doesn’t shed itself immediately, instead cracking like drying clay that eventually crumbles into fat, chalky flakes. The flesh he is left with underneath is sticky to the touch and a dusky, darker gray: his adult skin, which troll Google hints will harden, then gradually darken to black with each passing sweep.

You scoop the largest chunks of discarded epidermis out of his slime by hand, and leave the rest to dissolve in his ‘coon’s built-in filter. When particularly thick, clingy patches refuse to shed, you sink your fingernails into them and pry them off yourself. The first patch—damp, rubbery, and smelling of iron—makes you gag. The second patch comes a little easier. By the third, you’re desensitized enough to pry off a fourth, then a fifth, a sixth, a seventh, an eighth. Eventually, you stop counting.

By the seventh night, your black eye has mostly faded, and Karkat's done shedding, at least in all the places you can reach. The forums and friends you consult insist there is nothing left for you to do now, apart from the occasional sopor bath, except let the molt complete itself.

Your bro has never entered your room uninvited, but the thought of leaving Karkat defenseless for longer than a bathroom break still leaves your stomach churning. Your room becomes an impenetrable fortress, perpetually guarded by you. Your once-daily showers devolve into sparse, sporadic, three minute sessions. Dirty laundry piles exponentially at the foot of your bed. You place a nonperishable, protein-heavy grocery order through Amazon. For the days it takes your order to arrive, you eat the emergency snacks you have squirreled away in your closet.

From one of the cinder blocks comprising your desk, you retrieve a dusty pack of cigarettes and smoke them in between closet rations of Doritos and pretzels. The nicotine muffles your appetite: a fasting method you adopted at fifteen to outlast the days you couldn’t leave your room without triggering another strife. You smoke as far away from Karkat as possible, anxious you’ll tamper with his molt, somehow.

Bro continues to summon you to the roof for strifes, every morning for the first five days and more sporadically in the days that follow. You can only assume your refusal to fight back is boring him. In between strifes, you monitor Karkat’s progress, using his molt to distract you from your scabby arms, bruised knees, and sore ribs.

Karkat’s growth is exponential, increasing as he sheds. His arms thicken until they resemble tree trunks. His biceps compound until his upper arms outsize your head. His chest swells until it is broad and barrel-like. His shoulders broaden until you could perch comfortably on either side of his head. Watching his bulk increase so outrageously reminds you of the grow-in-water toys of your childhood. To your relief, the fat padding his hips and belly remains, a soft, comforting constant that keeps you grounded amidst such radical change.

You take pictures, documenting his daily progress. Unlike the other pictures of him in your camera roll, you don’t post them online, instead sending them solely to your friends over Pesterchum. Their shocked, sympathetic reactions make your room feel a little less stuffy, a little less lonely, and you bask in the empathetic aftermath of each sent photo.

Your desk chair spends half of the day parked next to his coon and the other half in front of your computer, aiding you in your futile attempts at research. Human resources on molting don’t exist on the human internet, or at least in any databases you have access to. Troll resources on molting are terse, vague, and utterly useless apart from the timeframes they provide.

When you accidentally stumble on molt-centric pale fetish porn, you rest your forehead on your desk and let out a tiny, strangled scream. Karkat doesn’t stir at the sound. Overcome with morbid, masochistic curiosity and lacking anything else to do, you click play.

You watch the smaller troll actor, a scrappy highblood with big horns, fuss over his molting, lowblood moirail, “unconscious” in her ‘coon and “shedding” what’s supposed to be adolescent skin but, to your experienced eyes, looks more like a chewed-up sheet of gray craft foam. About halfway through the video, the highblood pauses in bathing his moirail’s new skin in slime to press a gentle, lingering kiss to her temple. Something squirms in your stomach, but you don’t turn the video off until the end, when the lowblood wakes up in her newly “adult” body, purring, oblivious to the low budget of the film she’s in and everything except the brush of her moirail’s lips against her forehead.

It’s corny. It’s unrealistic. It’s completely alien. But porn is never entertaining to you, no matter how amateur or outrageous. It reminds you too much of your bro, of the countless times the set construction for his latest puppet porno overtook your living room and made exiting your bedroom—except as an unfortunate, underage cameo—an impossibility. But if Karkat were awake and watching this molting video with you, it could be funny, you think. You want him to wake up so you can show him this. You want him to wake up, period.

At night, you lie on your side at the edge of your bed and watch him until you slip into sleep. Sometimes, you make admissions to yourself. You admit you’d kiss his forehead raw if it’d wake him up; you admit you’d still want to, even if it didn’t. But even in the hushed, secret solace of your bedroom, you’re too afraid to try.

***

On the eighth day, you notice his claws have outgrown their manicure, their matte nail beds peeking out beneath the polish. Since he'd come to Earth, he'd been keeping them shorter and painting them brighter colors. A week ago, you'd watched him apply it with sheepish curiosity while he’d explained, sitting cross-legged on your carpet, how he was embarrassed about "looking like a pale hooker" but still felt the need to look as nonthreatening as possible to avoid confrontation. He’d dabbed silver polish on his thumbnail while you’d watched with guilty curiosity. When he’d offered to paint yours, too, you'd averted eye contact and declined.

Now, you wish you'd said yes. The regret sits low in your gut, festering like a sore.

But if—no, when—he wakes up, no amount of nail buffing will make him any less scary, you think. His jaw is too square, his hands too large, his bulk too great. If—no, _when_ —he wakes up, he’s going to have even more xenophobia to wade through than ever. The thought is discomforting. You push it away, continuing your daily assessment of Karkat’s progress, instead.

His horns have grown a paltry two inches. His hair is longer, wilder, curling at the ends and reaching almost to his shoulders. His fangs have elongated, sharpening minutely at the tips. Although his overbite remains, his teeth have straightened with the expansion of his mouth, which looks dry. Thoughtlessly, you run your fingers along the plush, chapped sweep of his lower lip.

You never even got to kiss him.

For once, the regret hits you before the shame does. You wanted to kiss him, you think. The thought burns and burns and burns until you’re aflame with it. You _still_ want to kiss him. In the oppressive quiet of your room and the shocked silence of your head, it sounds out as a wail. You _really_ wanted to kiss him, or for him to kiss _you,_ and you’ve wanted it for so long, you cannot remember a time you didn’t. In the process of burying your want and need of him under so many layers of denial, you’ve wound up fossilizing it, permanently preserving it in your neural pathways. Fighting it—fighting him, fighting yourself—was futile from the start.

Your feelings for him strike you like sunstroke. Too weary, frightened, and famished to fight them, you surrender. You dash to the bathroom and retch into the sink, crying from the mouth because it's always been easier for you than crying from your eyes. Your emotional release splatters against the enamel.

But you’re thirteen again, relegating your childhood triangle shades to the trash, replacing them with the Stiller shades from John. You’re sixteen again, planting your feet against the rooftop, refusing for the first time in years of asphalt and agony to strike back. You’re on that first roller coaster with Karkat again, free-falling, soaring. You’re someone worth traversing galaxies for, standing in that starry room again. You’re back on the beach, thrilled as your footing disappears with the retreating tide, Karkat’s crooked smile shining warmer on your back than the sun.

You finish gagging. You stand straight and wipe your mouth with the back of your hand. Someone new, old, and pleased to meet you stares back at you in the mirror. Underneath your knuckles, your lips are curled into a tremulous smile. Liberated. Terrified. Triumphant with the knowledge that your brother could push you off the roof and, despite his best efforts, you’d leak as much love as blood onto the pavement.

You return to Karkat’s side. You hold his hand. Your heart is beating a battle march, thick and determined, against your ribcage when you brush his bangs aside.

You lean in and press a kiss to his forehead. The fresh, piquant scent of his new skin warms your lungs, and when you pull away, the aftertaste of bile in your mouth is sweet.

***

On the morning of the tenth day, he begins to toss and turn again. As the susurrus of him shifting in his slime becomes increasingly persistent, so does your anxiety, until finally, he stops moving. You stare at him from your mattress, your hands clenched in your sheets.

And then millimeter by blessed millimeter, his eyes crack open.

You lungs constrict; your heart stutters. Relief crashes over you like a wave. In an instant you’re at his side, kneeling on the carpet beside his ‘coon.

“Dave?” is the first word he says in ten days. He lifts his hands out of the slime and gropes for you, his fingers twitching in your direction. You grab one of his hands with both of yours and give it a practiced squeeze.

“Yeah, bro, it’s me,” you reply, probably too fast. “How do you feel?” You place a hand on his shoulder and, realizing your mistake, retract it. “Oh fuck, you’re probably still tender, sorry. Didn’t mean to molest your brand, spankin’ new shoulders. Which are broader than a fucking bridge now, by the way, and also really, really didn’t want to shed, for some reason? I think I’m gonna be picking flakes of your dead baby-skin from my fingernails for the rest of our natural lives, like, seriously, way to go ahead and evolve like a fucking Pokemon—”

Karkat growls—a deep, earthy noise that makes your skin tingle—and the novelty of it shuts you up. You wait for him to speak.

“What are… what the _fuck_ are you talking about?” he eventually croaks. Disoriented, he squints at you. “What _about_ my skin?”

You blanch. His voice is so low now, all traces of the squeaky-shrillness you’d grown so endeared to gone, replaced with a rumble, low and gritty. “Uh,” you say.

He scrubs at his eyes with the backs of his fists, runs a meaty hand through the absolute disaster that is his hair. “How long have I been asleep?” he demands, still groggy but coming back to himself fast. “And why do I feel like I got hit by a fucking scuttlebuggy?”

“Uh… because you kinda did? Forget the scuttlebuggy, bro: puberty just hit you like a fucking freight train.”

“Puberty… what? Dave, what the fresh hell are you talking about?”

“You molted,” you blurt out. “You had your adult molt.”

At the word 'molt,' Karkat’s sleepy eyes sharpen. The gray of his irises has turned a brilliant red. He blinks at you. “Haha, _very funny,_ Dave,” he snorts. “Now knock it the fuck off and tell me what really happened.”

You frown. “I’m not trying to mess with you, dude. You had your adult molt. It took ten days and I’ve been here with you the entire, sicknasty time.” Exasperated, you give his hand another squeeze. “See, look at how big your hands got. You practically have yaoi hands now.”

Karkat stares at the hand you’re holding. When he finally processes that it belongs to him, his fingers twitch. His eyes widen.

“Dave,” he says, his voice tight and his grip on your hand even tighter, “take me to the ablution block.”

Perplexed, you help him out of his ‘coon. Stiff and clumsy from ten days of sedentary life, his entire body protests, all of his freshly-augmented joints and bones popping as they settle into their new places. He flinches at the sound, then flinches again when he looks down at his own body, taking up so much more space than it used to. You don’t let go of his hand, tugging him by the fingers towards the bathroom. His skin is so warm, drawing out your body’s accumulated sickness and fear like a living, breathing compress.

Your bathroom has always been small but it’s never been as cramped as it is now, with nearly seven feet of nearly-naked, adult alien musculature crowded in front of your tiny sink. Karkat grew vertically as well as horizontally, you realize, two parts shocked and one part awed as you take in for the first time proper the eight inches he now towers over you.

Karkat looks almost as overwhelmed as you feel. His reaction, like always, broadcasts itself on his face; you watch as he processes shock, then fear, disbelief, anger, and more fear, all over again. Eventually, his features settle into something stiff and stony. He gazes into the mirror at his own reflection for ten more seconds, his red eyes glossy and mouth drawn into a tight line—

And then he bursts into tears.

You have just enough time to watch one colossal, pink tear land in the sink before you’re being shoved bodily out of the bathroom. The door locks behind you.

You rattle the doorknob, concerned. “Karkat? Hey, Karkat… Karkat!”

Silence, and then the sound of a muffled sob. Hearing it makes you ache. Desperate, you try the doorknob again, to no avail. You consider breaking it off, then decide against it. He’s not dying, you remind yourself, he’s just upset.

“Karkat?” you try again. “Dude?” Your voice breaks. You’re too worried to be embarrassed.

You listen to him suck in a big, wet breath. “Go away, Dave,” he says, his voice ragged. “Please. Just… go.”

“You, uh… you sure about that, dude?”

“Positive. Please, just—fuck. Give me… give me a minute.”

You swallow. “Okay,” you reply lamely, trying and failing not to feel hurt. You stand in front of the bathroom door for a couple more seconds before returning to your room.

The air of your bedroom is stagnant. You busy your nervous hands by picking up empty snack bags, by folding your sheets, by rearranging the assortment of protein you ordered online—energy bars, almonds, several cans of sardines, and two squandered cartons of eggs you didn’t know to refrigerate—into a more appealing array atop your desk. You’re half-heartedly shoving over a week’s worth of dirty laundry into your closet when Karkat reappears in your doorway. His eyes are red-rimmed and swollen, and he’s wrapped a towel around his waist. On him, it looks more like a dishrag.

“Sorry,” he says. He grabs the door handle, trying to pull the door shut and accidentally slamming it in the process, unable to control his new strength. Both of you flinch. Awkward silence settles over your heads like a film of oil.

“It’s fine,” you say, eventually. “Makes sense you’d need a little processing time. Fuck, man, I’ve been here the entire time and I’m still in disbelief.”

“The _whole_ time? All—all ten days?”

“Uh, yeah.”

Karkat starts to rake a hand through his hair, but stops when his raptor claws snag on his scalp. “Holy fucking _shit,”_ he says, gaping at his nails.

You sit on the edge of your mattress and pat the space next to you, gesturing for him to come closer. You keep your movements slow and predictable; he’s reminding you of a frightened animal, a resemblance only solidified as he slinks towards you with his mountainous shoulders hunched and his claws twitching like a nervous puma. When he takes a seat next to you, the mattress ripples with his weight, bouncing your lesser mass up and down like you’re on a trampoline.

“So you stayed here, with me,” he repeats, staring at the shambolic state of your room, “for _ten_ days. Jesus, Dave, did you even leave this room?”

“Of course I did, dude, oh my god.” He gives you a disbelieving look, and you crumble. “For bathroom breaks. And to deal with my bro, and pick up Amazon orders. Speaking of, that proteinfest over there’s all yours, so feel free to get your chow on. I asked your friends and they said you’d probably need it.”

Instead of thanking you or starting to eat, Karkat just stares at you, his eyes bright and wet, his bottom lip trembling. Fresh tears trickle down his cheeks and land in his lap.

You’ve never felt more lost in your entire life. “Dude?” you say. It comes out like a yelp. You reach towards him, floundering, desperate to soothe him but unsure how.

“You’re too good for me,” Karkat hiccups, distorted by snot. “God. I—I don’t deserve this. You’re _too fucking good_ for cullbait like me, I... ” He trails off to scrub at his eyes with the back of his arm but, when confronted by the size of his forearm, starts crying harder.

You set a hand on his shoulder, give him a little shake. “I—what? Bro, what are you even talking about? What do you mean ‘cullbait,’ how is that even relevant here—”

“I thought I was prepared for it!” he says, incredulous, less at you and more at himself. His upper lip is hooked into a snarl. “But of course the universe had to throw in one last ‘fuck you’ and give me a life shorter and less significant than a goddamn screechbug’s! I don’t know why I ever expected anything different! Past me was fucking delusional! Past me wasted half of his allotted sweeps in his hive like a dunderfuck without knowing it, and now I’ve only got a couple measly ‘years’ left on this planet before I’m completely geriatric—”

You cut him off by giving his arm a tug, forcing him to look at you before he devolves into complete hysteria. “Karkat,” you say, your voice flat, “dude. You’ve gotta tell me what’s going on here before you get your freak on, or else I’m gonna start losing it, too.”

“I molted so early, Dave,” Karkat says, his voice hollow, “I’m going to be lucky to live longer than a limeblood in a subjugglator church.”

Your palms are sweating. “How… how short are we talking here, in sweeps?”

He sniffs, visibly wilting as the fight leaves his body. “Fourteen? Maybe twice that, if we’re being really fucking optimistic.”

You do the math in your head. That’s anywhere from thirty to sixty years. “That’s really short,” you say, your mouth dry. “That’s way too short.”

“Fucking tell me about it.”

“No, but—but that’s based on enlisted trolls, right? So you’ll probably have much longer than that, since you’re not gonna be subjugating planets or getting into blood feuds, or anything.”

“Maybe,” Karkat says, but his head is still hanging, his hands still fisted in his lap.

“Not maybe, _definitely,”_ you insist, because even if you are desperate, what you’re saying makes sense. “Besides, even if you’ve only got sixty years, that’s not that bad. Lots of humans don’t even make it to seventy, and it’s not like we’re out there conquering space.”

Karkat perks up at that, his pupils dilating. “Really?”

“Really. And let’s be honest here, I’m probably not gonna make it to seventy either, I’m too gross and malnourished for that. We’re the kind of bros who literally ride and die together, man. Even the angels on our headstones are gonna be fistbumping.”

“I’m holding you to that,” Karkat says. His eyes are watering anew, but there’s a wobbly smile on his lips. You smile back, equally wobbly, and bump your shoulders together. It feels like trying to nudge a small mountain. When he starts crying again, you rise and appropriate a roll of toilet paper from the bathroom so he can wipe his face. You sit in indulgent silence and wait for him to run out of tears. The air around him is damp and salty by the time he’s finished.

When he’s all cried out, he hands you back the roll of toilet paper. He’s punched holes in it with his claws. As he gnaws on a protein bar, still wearing only a towel, a strange look overtakes his features: not quite anger, not quite sadness. You can’t pinpoint it.

You cock an eyebrow. “What’s up?”

“It’s stupid.”

“Lay it on me anyways.”

“No, it’s just…” he starts, then stops, apparently too offended for words. He glares at his protein bar. “My horns didn’t even fucking grow.”

You lean against him and laugh, delirious and stupid with relief, until your belly aches.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for this chapter: mentions of blood drinking, alcoholism, and smoking
> 
> Thanks for being so patient! For more recent readers who aren't used to our wonky upd8 schedule: chapters usually come out months apart because I'm a university student and things are consistently bonkers. Over the months that it took me to write this chapter, I had a lot of things vying for my attention, including two cons and a weather ballooning experiment. But we're going to finish this no matter what, and the end is finally in sight! 
> 
> Also, I recently made [two worldbuilding posts](https://pulsenhaze.tumblr.com/tagged/astronomy-in-reverse) for this fic, so maybe check those out.

Karkat has to slouch in the passenger’s seat to fit in your truck. Even sunk low in his seat, his hands in his lap and his legs crammed in the space underneath the glove department, his horns still graze the roof. Trapped underneath one of his thighs is the crumpled, plastic packaging of an instant noodle packet. After devouring all of the protein you’d procured—bar the eggs, which you’d refused to let him eat—he’d eaten four packets of noodles, raw, and guzzled eight successive cups of lukewarm tap water. He’d brought the last of the noodles in the car with him, as a “snack.” ****

As you claim a parking spot, he’s using a freshly trimmed claw to pick a chunk of uncooked noodle from between his front teeth. The mall looms in front of you, large and foreboding, brimming with strangers about to experience an adult troll for the first time in their lives.

You hesitate to get out of the car, your hand lingering on the door handle. “You ready?” you ask.

Karkat pulls his claw away from his mouth. He licks his lips, his gray tongue stained a muddy orange from the noodle flavoring packets and much longer than you remember it being. “You say that like I have a choice,” he says, his eyes flickering to his outfit.

He gave himself a haircut over your bathroom sink, then squeezed into the only clothes in your apartment that wouldn’t tear at the seams: your flip-flops, your baggiest tank top, and a pair of basketball shorts you haven’t worn since middle school. The tank is stretched thin and ends where his navel would be, if he had one; the shorts, knee-length on you, end mid-thigh on him and hug his legs and hips. Anxious about inadvertently exposing the new, panic-red of his irises, he keeps adjusting and re-adjusting the way his shades sit on his nose. He looks like a bull shark modeling yoga apparel.

“You sure you don’t wanna head back home and do this online, instead?” you ask. “Guesstimate yourself as an extra, extra, _extra_ large, snuggle into Amazon’s warm and welcoming embrace?”

“Fuck no. We just spent ten days trapped in that room and it shows… and _smells,”_ Karkat says, wrinkling his nose. “No matter what, this is going to be humiliating. At least this way I don’t have to inhale your stale sweat.”

“I spend ten terrible days waiting on your unconscious ass and you can’t get past a little stonk?”

“It was more than a little, Dave. We were drowning in your fear fumes.”

“That’s what Terezi said, too. And man, at least at home, you know whose sweat you’re inhaling. Just wait ‘til you get a whiff of the fitting rooms.”

“Oh, great! Fan-fucking-tastic,” Karkat deadpans. “My new and improved sniff nodes can’t wait.”

The repartee rolls off your tongues smooth and sweet after ten days of silence. You’re grinning at each other as you climb out of the car and cross the parking lot. Karkat’s smile fades as you reach the entrance of the mall, his posture stiffening.

You ache to take his hand. Even now, hours later, the sensation of his fingers intertwined with yours lingers in your nerve endings like a ghost, making your palms tingle. You ignore it and pat him on the arm instead.

“You sure about this?” you ask again. His skin is so warm.

He nods. “Let’s get this over with.”

You head inside.

Scents of recycled air, pretzels, and cheap fabric flood your nostrils. From the speakers blasts a pop song with too much bass and not enough lyrics. Beside you, Karkat hunches over, trying to look smaller. The stores you need are at the other end of the mall, and you begin the conspicuous trek there.

People stare. Some slow their steps to gape as they pass; others bow their heads and walk faster, scurrying away as fast as they can without breaking into a run. Children point and have their fingers diverted by anxious parents. The crowd gives you an even wider berth than they did at the state fair. Behind his shades, Karkat’s eyes flit, wary, from stranger to stranger as they regard him the same way they’d regard a predator let loose at the zoo. His hair bristles like sea urchin spines. Your arm brushing his, you walk close to him, trying to shield as much of him as you can from strangers’ prying eyes. To distract him you provide running commentary, mocking mannequins, window displays, and your fellow mall-goers, but his shoulders remain tight and his head low until you reach the respite of your first store.

Only a handful of other shoppers are inside, too busy browsing racks and shelves to note your arrival. For aesthetic purposes, the overhead lights are dimmed to a level comfortable for troll eyes, but Karkat doesn’t take his shades off. As you flick through racks of clothing, he keeps rubbing at his bare arms, a nervous tick rendered ridiculous by his new bulk.

“Trying to kindle a fire with your arms there, bro?” you tease.

Too busy squinting at a price tag, Karkat doesn’t look at you. “Go pail a street sign, asswipe,” he growls, “it’s not like you’re comfortable showing this much skin, either. You’ve only worn long sleeves and jeans this entire sweaty season.”

“It’s not my fault your delicate troll constitution can’t roll with the heat like mine can,” you deflect, “get on my level. And by that, I mean get yourself a pair of shorts I didn’t sweat in during middle school-mandated dodgeball.”

“We had that game on Alternia,” Karkat says. “Were your balls spiked too?”

“Holy shit, no, they were already deadly enough. You seriously played death-dodgeball in middle school?”

Karkat rolls his eyes. “We’ve been over this, Dave! Schoolfeeding, intermediate and otherwise, isn’t something you physically attend, it’s—”

“Some kinda cyberpunk hell-tech where you plug yourself into your laptop and download shit into your impressionable young brain like you’re in the fucking Matrix, yeah, I know, I get it, there’s imperial propaganda chilling in your memory next to all your algebra. I was talking about middle school as an age range, dude, not an actual place.”

“Oh. No, then, I didn’t play it,” Karkat says, “for obvious reasons. And also because it was a betting sport. I didn’t have the strength or the caegars to spare, I’m not a fucking blueblood.”

“I dunno,” you say, elbowing him in the side, “you could pass for one now that you’re stacked like a bodybuilder at a Jenga tournament. You’d absolutely decimate all the death-dodgeball competition.”

“I am going to very tentatively take that as a compliment,” Karkat grunts, and lapses into a moment of quiet, punctuated only by the click, click, clicking of his claws against plastic as he flicks through clothes hangers. As you hold large, extra large, and extra-extra large shirts against his front to determine his sizing, you’re forced by his new height to rise to your tiptoes. You use him as a coat rack, draping prospective purchases over his shoulder until he complains about the weight and you herd him into a fitting room.

While he tries on clothing, you wait outside, leaning against the wall a few feet across from his stall. His horns and messy hair peek over the closed fitting room door, and you immortalize the sight with a selfie: you in the foreground, gesturing to the top of his head in the background. As you lean against his door and upload the picture to Instagram, Karkat grumbles under his breath. His frustrated hissing is overlaid with the whisper of shifting cloth. Eventually, he pokes his head out of the room, bumping you in the back with the door.

“Get in here,” he says. He holds the door open, his hand completely enveloping the handle. “It’ll be easier for both us. Your ganderbulbs have already seen everything my miserable flesh has to offer, and I need a second opinion. I’m shit at fashion.”

He’s cracked the door open just enough to expose a sliver of his naked shoulder. Your mouth feels dry. “Uh, is there room in there for both of us?” You hope so. You really hope not.

He rolls his eyes. “Yes, Dave, or I wouldn’t have asked. There’s room in here for you _and_ your bugfuck space awareness, so get in here.”

“It’s _spacial_ awareness,” you protest, weak, but he’s already ushering you inside. The door shuts with a quiet click, and then you’re standing less than three feet apart from a shirtless Karkat, apparently unabashed after ten unwitting, nearly-naked days in your company. He plucks a long-sleeved shirt from a hook on the wall and wiggles into it with ginger movements, careful not to tear or stretch the seams. The flex of his stomach makes warmth lick at your insides. You avert your eyes.

“So, this one,” he says. He gives the hem an awkward tug. “What do you think.”

Now that he’s fully dressed, you drag your eyes away from the dull, white walls of the stall. “Uh, it’s…” you hesitate. “It’s okay, I guess? You kinda look like you’re channeling a minor Star Wars villain.”

“Oh, _fuck_ that,” he says, already tugging it over his head. He lets it drop to the floor and pulls on a sweater: black, wool, cable crew. “How’s this?”

“Much improved, man. Looks real slick, real dignified. You’re probably gonna roast in it, though.”

“We only have, what, half a perigee until we’re going to be freezing our globes off? I’ll wear it then,” Karkat argues. In two weeks, the two of you will drive a moving van to John’s house in Washington, where you’ll spend the last three weeks of the summer and enter university alongside John, Rose, Jade, and their trolls. You’ve been so preoccupied with Karkat’s molt, you’d almost forgotten.

Just thinking about it sets your skin abuzz with anxiety, anticipation, elation. By the end of the month, you’ll be sharing meatspace with John, Rose, Jade, and their trolls for the next _four years._

“We’ve gotta pack our shit soon,” you say. “Fuck, I haven’t even bought boxes, our dorm’s gonna be destitute.”

“We’ve got, what, two weeks until we leave? It’s fine, we can do it tomorrow,” Karkat suggests, and wiggles into a maroon t-shirt. It’s a snug fit, stretched taut across his chest and clinging to the swell of his arms and the gentle curve of his belly.

Your everything crackles like lightning. “Get that one,” tumbles out of your mouth without your consent. You’re blindsided—you’ve never seen him wear anything except baggy sweaters and oversized t-shirts.

He squints and fiddles with his collar, self-conscious. “Really?”

“Yeah, bro. You—you look real good.” Your reply is too fast, too breathy. If the dressing room was cramped before, it’s suffocating now.

There’s a tiny pocket on his breast. He jams two gigantic fingers in it and wiggles them around. “This pocket is ridiculous. It’s a pocket for marchbugs. Why is it here?”

“It’s because you’re aesthetically appealing,” you say, then backpedal so quickly you wheeze on your inhale. “I mean, it’s—the _pocket’s_ aesthetically appealing. Minimalism is in right now, y’know? And you can put whatever you want in my—in _it,_ the pocket, _jesus,_ you can put whatever the hell kind of small object you want in there. Like a pen. You can stick a fucking pen in there.”

Karkat blinks at you, slow enough that you can watch the slide of his outermost eyelids. “You’d think I was the native speaker here, with how much of a verbal trainwreck that was,” he says. “Holy fuck, Dave, listening to that made me feel like you were stroking on me.”

 _“Having_ a stroke,” you correct, weakly. Your face has gone numb with heat. The air in the dressing room feels like it’s been brought to a boil.

His expression pinched with what you assume is embarrassment, Karkat frowns at his shoes. His new skin is too dark for you to determine if he’s blushing, which unnerves you. “I’m done here,” he says. “I think we need to go somewhere else for pants.”

“Sweet,” you say, your voice cracking, “ let’s go pay.” If your hand wrenches the door open with a little too much enthusiasm, Karkat doesn’t mention it.

He decides to buy the black sweater and, at your mumbled encouragement, the tight t-shirt in several conservative colors. During the time you spent in the dressing rooms, a long line has accumulated at the register.

“How long did you save up for this, anyways?” you ask him, once your brain has stopped simmering.

Karkat barks out a laugh. The person standing in front of you flinches. “Ha! There’s no ‘saving’ on a lowblood stipend. Sollux transferred a fuckload of caegars into my account before I left. A lot of them were his. I don’t want to know what dark corners of the troll web he funneled the rest from.”

“Is this the same guy who forged your passport, your hacker friend? What’s his deal?”

A smile, small and dry. “He’s—he _was_ my best friend on Alternia. We met on a World of Trollcraft forum when we were four and we’ve been hatefriends ever since.”

“Doesn’t seem very hateful if he’s handing you his wallet.”

Karkat’s smile disappears. “He’s not going to need it anymore. He’s bugfuck crazy and wants to helm for his matesprit.” He says ‘helm’ in Alternian.

It takes you a second to parse his meaning. The concept is a familiar, if not contentious one; as polarizing flashpoints in conversations about the Alternian Empire, helmsman have been discussed by everyone from conservative news pundits to human activists for troll rights.

“Like, piloting the ship with his telekinesis, or whatever, right?” you ask, just to be sure.

“That’s a nice way of putting it,” Karkat snarls, glaring at the floor, “but yes. He’s mustard, has psiionics too strong to hide. At least this way he’s avoiding the imperial draft, and his matesprit’s the goddamn heiress, so as far as turning himself into a battery goes, he could do a lot worse.”

“Jesus.”

“At least this way he gets to pick his own captain, and get helmed by a good engineeradicator. Feferi persuaded one of our friends to install him. And he’s going to message me from the helm, when he leaves imperial space and it’s safe.” Not _if_ he leaves imperial space, but _when_. Karkat says it like he believes it, like he’s always believed it, like by believing it, he renders Sollux’s survival more manifest than any ship or statute of imperial law. You think about the fact that he’s alive on Earth, standing here in line with you, and throb with a gratitude so acute you can feel it in your gums, in your guts, in your fingertips.

“I am so fucking glad you made it off your planet,” you say. Flat, simple, earnest. Your throat hurts.

“Me too,” Karkat says, low and so bittersweet you can taste it, and then the cashier is ushering you towards the register to pay.

Before you leave the mall, he buys a pair of shoes, a collection of dark, simple t-shirts, three pairs of jeans—two skinny, at your suggestion, one bootcut, at his insistence—and two pairs of shorts. On the way back to the truck, he ducks into the bathroom to change out of your clothes and into his new ones. As he slumps into the passenger’s seat, you’re just as relieved as he is.

“Mission accomplished,” you declare, as you slide the key into the ignition. “Hey, bro, how’s it feel to own something other than mom jeans?”

“Oh, it’s awe-inspiring,” Karkat deadpans, “I never knew what I missing until you insulted my perfectly serviceable fashion. Never again will I return to wearing a practical pair of pants.” But his hands, kneading in simple, animal pleasure at the denim finally covering his knees, betray him. You doubt he even knows he’s doing it.

You smile and press the gas pedal. Underneath your foot, there is the crinkle of plastic: the empty ramen packet from your ride here. Your stomach clenches around nothing as you realize you’re famished. You can’t remember the last time you had a full meal, or even an appetite, and you’re eager to rectify that.

“Yo, wanna grab lunch?” you ask.

“God, yes,” Karkat groans. I’ve never been so hungry in my entire, incredibly illegal life.” You are struck with an incredible idea.

“Do you mean that? Like, really, really mean it?” you ask.

He rolls his eyes at you. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, Dave, but I haven’t eaten a meal in ten days. Any other questions, chucklefuck, or can I keep starving to death?”

You grin. “Yeah, actually. Want one more t-shirt?”

***

Four pounds of beef. Eight slices of bacon and cheese. Onions, mushrooms, jalapenos, pickles, lettuce, and tomato, all sandwiched between two hamburger buns, twelve inches in diameter and nestled in a bed of fries.

“So,” he says, licking his lower lip, “if I eat all of this in an hour, we get it for free?”

“That, plus a t-shirt and probably the heartburn of a fucking lifetime,” you say.

In reply, Karkat’s stomach growls, a rumbling bass so low and intent, you expect your silverware to rattle against the table. A shower of sesame seeds falls to his plate as he gathers his burger into his hands. Seeking encouragement, his gaze flickers to yours, and you twitch your head in the tiniest of nods.

A snarl. A flash of shark teeth. Dark, wet gray. The second Karkat lunges towards that first bite, your waiter slams the start button on the timer, sets it on the edge of the table, and scurries away to the kitchen. As the timer ticks, you pick at the unremarkable proportions on your plate, and watch, awed and disgusted, as Karkat compensates for ten days of calorie loss in thirty-five minutes. Afterwards, he licks ketchup from between his fingers, then asks the waiter for dessert. The look on her face sends you spiraling into laughter-induced heartburn.

“It’s like—holy fucking shit, dude, I feel like the first guy to discover a black hole,” you say, forking a piece of apple pie into your mouth. “I feel like I just stumbled into the vore section of FurAffinity. I feel like I never have to eat again by sheer fucking proxy.”

“You convert all the energy _you’ve_ stored in _your_ cells for the past seven sweeps into pure muscle mass and see how much _you_ eat, shitlips.”

“Wait, past seven sweeps? I thought you were,” you pause to do the mental math, translating eighteen Earth years into sweeps, “eight and some change, or something.”

“I pupated when I was one, so I had to store and use energy for that, first.” Karkat rolls his eyes. “Grub-legs don’t just fall off, Dave, it’s an involved process and spinning a decent cocoon’s harder than it fucking looks.”

You snort. “Don’t need to convince me, dude, not after spending the last ten days in body horror central, population: our sorry asses. Human puberty’s got nothing on Alternian anatomical armageddon.”

He puts his fork down with a grimace. “Your joke from earlier, about my molt hitting me like a scuttlebuggy? That wasn’t a fucking joke. My insides feel like they’ve been fucking pulverized. I feel like someone tried to grind me down into grubsauce.”

“Jesus,” you say, pushing your empty plate aside, “let’s head home, then. You need to swing by anywhere else, pick anything else up?”

He shakes his head. “Just take me home, Dave,” he says, as quiet as he ever gets. His vowels vibrate differently now, underlaid with beetle-bass instead of his old, cricket-chirp soprano.

You want to sample the way he says your name and loop it ad infinitum. You want to tell him that, but you aren’t ready, not now, not yet. For the past few hours, a plan has been brewing in your mind: half-formed, already brilliant, and entirely contingent on you biding your time for a few more days.

A smile nudges at the corners of your mouth. You let it happen, soft and small and easier than it’s ever been before.

“Sure thing, bro,” you say, and get up to pay.

***

Your front door frame is too short for Karkat, who glares at it as he ducks his head to step inside. Less than a minute later, he’s sweeping through your messy room like a housekeeping hurricane. He gathers your dusty cups and deposits them in the bathroom to be washed in the sink. Clicking his tongue in disgust, he folds your blanket and straightens your pillows. While he’s preoccupied with plucking trash from your floor, you shove the dirty laundry in your closet into a plastic bag before he can see the blood stains.

“I’m gonna go start a load,” you say, pointing at the bag. “Want me to wash your new stuff?”

“Sure,” he grunts, absorbed in fishing an empty bag of Doritos out from behind your mattress. For the first time in ten days, you leave him alone longer than three minutes as you scurry to your apartment complex’s nearest laundry room, scrub at your shirts with stain remover, and load them into the washing machine.

When you return to your room ten minutes later, Karkat is leaning expectantly against your desk, his eyebrows raised and your empty carton of cigarettes in his hand. Between his massive fingers, it looks like a matchbox.

“You _smoke?”_ he asks, his upper lip curled in distaste.

“Not anymore,” you blurt out. Your face feels hot. You stare at the wall behind his head and try to find the closest approximation to the truth. “I, uh… I used to do it out of stress, sometimes. But I’m quitting now, I’ve been meaning to for a while.”

At stress, his eyes soften. “Oh,” he says, and frowns at the carpet. “Me too.”

You mouth falls open, just a little. “Dude, hold up, _what?_ You smoke too?”

“I _used_ to,” he grits out, like it pains him. “I was seven and fantastically stressed. But even the shit-ships that smuggled me here weren’t shady enough to let their passengers smoke in open space, so I had to quit before I went off-planet. Spent three months’ savings just to order a goddamn dermal implant off the lowblood black market.”

“Fuck, man, if it was a dermal implant, you molted all that money away.”

As if expecting to see the implant, Karkat walks over to his ‘coon and glowers into the slime, still chunky with pieces of his baby skin. “Jesus,” he says, “this is revolting. I’m revolting.”

“You made skin soup,” you say. “Or, I did. You just supplied the ingredients, I’m the poor bastard who had to peel and marinate you like jumbo shrimp.”

He kneels at the foot of your bed to rummage through his suitcase. “This isn’t going to filter fully for days. I need a sopor patch.”

“You have some left over from your trip here, right?”

“Yeah, I have enough left for an entire perigee,” he says, presenting a flat green patch, roughly the size of origami paper.

You lean towards him, curious. “That shit as potent as regular slime?”

“They’re fleet-standard, so a little more, actually. The first days I used them I got ridiculously fucking spacesick. I spent most of hyperspace ejecting my bilesack into an obnoxiously high-tech load gaper.”

The more you learn about his trip here, the more you want to hold him. You distract yourself from the urge by taking out your phone and swiping to your camera. “Hey, say cheese,” you say, snapping a picture before he can respond.

He growls. “What the bugwinged fuck, Dave? Haven’t you already taken enough pictures of my disgustingly developed person?”

“These aren’t for me, dude, they’re for the group chat to let everyone know you’re up and kicking. They’ve been worried about you, too.” As you speak, you upload it to the latest memo.

“Oh,” he says. He scratches behind his ear. “That’s—that’s good, that you’re letting them know. Have you been talking to Kanaya, Terezi, and Vriska, too?”

“Yeah, they’ve been giving me tips this whole time. You wanna see the logs? I can pull ‘em up real quick.”

He bites his lower lip. “No, I’ll just talk to them myself,” he says, pulling out his husktop. As he boots it up, its legs unfurl into standing position with an audible click. “I need to thank them myself. It’s the least I can fucking do.”

His voice wobbles. His fingers hesitate on the keys. “You alright, dude?” you ask.

“I’m fine!” he says, scowling at the screen. “It’s just—they know, now. About my mutation.”

“Oh, shit. You never told them? ‘Cause I wasn’t sure if you did, so I tried to keep it on the downlow.”

“It doesn’t matter if you did. If their think pans are even halfway functional—which they most certainly fucking are, Terezi alone’s sharper than all of us combined—they figured it out from how early this was, and how cagey I am about my blood! And now I have to somehow find the words to thank them for not letting me rot, which they had every goddamn right to. And that’s on the hefty fucking assumption they even still want to speak to me.”

Your heart aches. “Man, of course they do. They’re your friends.”

The shake of his head is almost violent. “I know that! But I need to make sure. I can’t have any doubt, Dave. Not about this.”

You never thought it possible for someone to look so simultaneously determined and resigned. You swallow. “Okay,” you say, “okay. But I’d give ‘em some more credit.”

But he’s already hammering away at his keyboard, emotions flickering sharp and raw across his face, intensifying with every response he receives. Watching him react to a conversation you aren’t privy to feels uncomfortably voyeuristic. After twenty, awkward minutes, you leave to retrieve your clothes and hang them to dry in the bathroom. When you slink back into your bedroom, he’s still typing, hunched over his husktop at the foot of your bed.

You’re on your hands and knees, nudging chords aside to clear a space on the floor next to your mattress, when Karkat finally closes the lid of his husktop to look at you.

“Everything cool?” you ask.

“Yeah, it’s fine now. They’re—they’re relieved?” It doesn’t sound like it was meant to be a question. His voice is thick. “They said they don’t give a shit about my blood.”

“See, I told you they wouldn’t. They’re your fucking friends.”

“Yeah, but it’s just—it’s different, to hear it said. Apparently they’ve known for sweeps, and just didn’t think it was worth mentioning.” He scrubs at his eyes with the back of his hand, his bottom lip trembling. “Fuck.”

You don’t comment on that, or on the pink tears on his keyboard. He’s forfeited enough dignity today. Instead, you sit a few feet away and listen to him smother his sniffles in the crook of his elbow.

“Sorry my anguish bladder won’t stop leaking today,” he says when he’s calmed down, a few minutes later. His ears are flattened to his head in embarrassment.

“Don’t be, bro. Hey, mind getting the lights and lock?”

Puffy-eyed, he obliges, flicking the overhead light off and locking the door behind him. Afterwards, he takes a seat on the edge of your mattress.

“Why were you groping the carpet, anyways?” he asks.

“You looked like you were fixing to crash early, and since you’re obviously not sleeping in your ‘coon tonight, I was making myself some space.”

He cocks an eyebrow. “What, so you’re going to sleep on the floor? You don’t even have a blanket.”

You only own one blanket, and you left it folded on the bed for him. You shrug. “It’s August, ain’t like I’m gonna need one. Hey, you good with only one pillow, or do you want this one too?”

“No, Dave, I don’t want to steal literally the only thing keeping you off the floor! This is asinine, I’m not letting you sleep like a barkbeast in _your own hive._ Get up here.”

“Sorry, but I ain’t Rihanna, and that sure as hell ain’t a California king. It’s a Texas twin and there’s no way we’re gonna fit unless we break a natural law, or seven.” You flop backwards onto your pillow and ignore the twinge your spine gives where it arches off the floor. “I’m fine down here, seriously. Munching carpet’s a popular Earth pastime.”

“I’m still not letting you be some kind of mattress martyr,” Karkat argues, peeling away the back of his sopor patch and sticking it to his neck, underneath his jaw. “That’s utter bullshit.”

You take off your shades, setting them by your pillow. Wiggling against the floor in a grand, getting-comfortable gesture, you throw an arm over your eyes. “Night, bro,” you say.

You hear his jaw snap shut, his teeth grind as he chews on his retort and eventually swallows it. With an exasperated huff, he yanks the blanket over his body and settles into bed. The mattress creaks underneath his weight. Without looking at him, you know his eyes are on you. His gaze on you sizzles. You force yourself to keep your eyes shut, your face relaxed and your breathing slow, even as carpet-dust makes the inside of your nose tingle.

Your phone vibrates next to you, insistent. You pick it up and squint, perplexed, at your notifications. Two new messages from Rose. She’s never on this late.

\-- tentacleTherapist [TT] began pestering turntechGodhead [TG] \--

TT: Look, I know that we're not supposed to talk to each other about our feelings and mean it.

TT: But can I ask you something?

You roll onto your side and start typing.

TG: uh

TG: go ahead i guess

TT: Do you ever think you're completely and utterly unequipped to ever interact with someone else, human or troll?

TG: yeah

TT: “Yeah”? 

TT: I extend this excruciatingly emotional olive branch out to you and that’s all you have to say?

TG: jesus rose sorry what else am i supposed to say

TG: sure im also socially and emotionally crippled and its irrevocably fucking with my ability to have intimacy of any kind with practically everyone i give half a shit about and ESPECIALLY the one person i give infinite shits about

TG: and now that im finally starting to wade through my catastropsyche i cant even bring myself to grab his hand without starting the emotional equivalent of a tire fire in my brain

TG: i want to be close to him so bad but as soon as im there i feel like im gonna forcibly eject my entire digestive system and when i pull away i feel even worse

TT: Holy shit.

TG: i

TG: fuck

TG: sorry

TG: i didnt mean to unload that on you just now

TG: sorry

TT: Don’t be.

TT: I understand, on a level more acute than I’d like to.

TT: Kanaya bought me a present yesterday, while we were out. A scarf. Silk, modestly priced, tasteful.

TG: no offense but my desire and capacity to hear you gloat about your relationship right now is about as strong as my desire for you to shove your knitting needles up my ass

TT: No offense, but maybe if you let me finish, you’d see where I was going with this.

TG: …

TG: sorry

TT: Apology accepted.

TT: Anyways… the scarf. 

TT: It took me by surprise, and I was too flustered to accept it outright. 

TT: But Kanaya kept insisting I take it, and for a truly dreadful, terrifying moment, her insistence reminded me of Mother.

TT: Of course, the two situations were utterly incomparable. Kanaya wasn’t trying to instigate yet another bout of passive-aggressive, material one upmanship. Or apologize via an entirely insufficient “gift” for neglecting to attend her past eight AA meetings.

TT: My forebrain realized Kanaya’s good intentions and wanted so badly to accept them, but my hindbrain was too busy gnashing its teeth and screaming betrayal for me to do anything about it. God fucking forbid I react with grace and candor to a gesture of genuine kindness from my dear friend.

TT: I wound up clutching the scarf in my fists, at a distance, like she’d handed me roadkill. I can’t even remember if I said thank you.

TT: I know I hurt her feelings. We’ve barely spoken since yesterday.

TT: I have absolutely no idea how I’m going to explain any of this to her without looking like a pathetic piece of shit in some way, shape, or form.

TG: yeah thats pretty dismal tbh

TG:but instead of explaining yourself why dont you just try apologizing first

TG: all the graceful exposition in the worlds not gonna remedy your asshole response to getting a gift from your gf if you dont say a seriously hefty sorry first

TT: She’s not my girlfriend.

TG: you dont have to play coy you know im not gonna be an asshole about this

TG: wait

TG: you do know that im not gonna be an asshole about this right?

TG: like you know im not some kind of homophobic shit stain

TG: i know i live in texas and have said some seriously dubious shit in the past re this topic but things are way different now with karkat and everything and even if they werent theres literally no way i wouldnt still be stoked over you finding the jane austen to your mary shelley or whatever

TT: Oh my god.

TT: As much as I appreciated that, and I really did, she truly isn’t my girlfriend. We aren’t dating.

TG: yeah but its a work in progress right

TT: God, I hope so.

TG: idk what nasty bog of self doubt youve submerged yourself in but shes crazy about you

TG: she glows when she talks about you and im not saying that figuratively

TG: i saw her and karkat having a video call three weeks ago and when he asked what living with you was like she lit up like a goddamn lighthouse

TG: all up and broadcasting her excruciatingly obvious crush on you like a beacon of pure sapphic vampire energy

TG: i saw karkat turning his screen brightness down and everything it was just that intense

TT: That’s just a feature of rainbow drinker biology though, isn’t it?

TT: It’s related to hunger. She probably saw Karkat and got hungry. She always fluctuates in brightness right before and after I feed her.

TG: hold up

TG: youve been feeding her

TG: as in actually letting her drink your blood

TT: Yes?

TT: It’s efficient. Animal blood is expensive to acquire in bulk, it’s just a little prick, and she’s certainly not a messy eater, if that’s what you’re implying.

TG: oh my god

TG: holy shit rose oh my fucking god

TG: i cannot fucking believe that after years of you smirking at me from your pleather armchair and lording over my subconscious slip ups with your freudian fuckery you cant even grasp the fact that shes glowin because shes hotter for you than a goth at summer camp and youre givin her an exclusive year round pass to mack on your neck

TT: Oh.

TG: this is so fucking rich

TT: Oh my god.

TG: ahaha wow

TT: You’re going to tease me mercilessly for this until the day I die, aren’t you?

TG: definitely

TT: Fuck.

TT: Well, turnabout’s fair play, I suppose.

TT: Spare me what little pride I have left and tell me how it’s going with Karkat, now that he’s finally awake.

TG: he ate a 5 lb burger today in under an hour and got a free t shirt

TT: As impressive as that is, it’s not the answer I was looking for and you know it.

TG: okay fine we havent done jack shit

TG: i held his hand while he was conked the fuck out during his molt and weve had a hug or two but thats about it

TT: Don’t rush your confession. Just do it when it feels right.

TT: If it helps any, he absolutely adores you, Dave. In every conversation we’ve had, he can’t shut up about you.

TG: since when do you guys talk

TT: Since he asked me to beta his High School Musical fic.

TG: man you cant just say that and not give me any details

TT: I was sworn to secrecy, sorry. I promised him I’d take Chad and Ryan’s sordid black romance to the grave.

TT: I will say that his prose is riveting, despite or maybe even because it was written in his second language. He might be the next Nabokov.

TT: But I’m not letting this tangent continue. Let’s get our heads back in the game.

TG: i fucking hate you

TT: Maybe he’ll let you read it once you start dating.

TT: And before you try to refute your ability to date him with some flimsy, self deprecating remark, scroll back up to what you told me about Kanaya, and trust me when I say he’s so infatuated with you, it’s honestly embarrassing to witness.

TG: really

TT: Yes, really.

TT: And maybe it isn’t my place to say it, but I’m proud of you.

TT: I’m sorry if my teasing you over the years made your self realization any harder than it should have been. I shouldn’t have lorded your sexuality over you for my own amusement. There were other, kinder ways I could have helped you. More overt ones, at the very least.

TG: no its uh

TG: its fine

TG: all your ribbing forced me to confront things about myself that i wouldve sidestepped the shit out of otherwise

TG: plus now were even for all of the homophobic “”jokes”” i spewed on you for the past nine years

TT: Thank you.

TG: can you not tell anyone else about this

TT: Don’t worry, I won’t breathe a word of it to anyone else. Not even Kanaya.

TT: Who you come out to, how you come out, and whether you do it at all is entirely your jurisdiction.

TG: thanks

TG: fuck i havent even cracked open that particular pandoras box yet

TG: like i just barely figured out how im gonna tell karkat let alone john or jade

TG: i wasnt even planning on telling you tonight it just kinda tumbled out of my shitty little mouth

TG: not that i regret it or anything but its like i came down with emotional cholera and projectile vomited my gay awakening all over you and if i let that happen with john and jade i might have to waltz back into the closet and brain myself with the door

TT: You know there’s absolutely no way they’re going to react negatively, right?

TT: Things might be awkward for a short period of time, and you might have to answer some of John’s ridiculous questions, but the two of them aren’t going to be upset about it.

TT: They’re going to welcome you with as much love as they welcomed me, and if for some inconceivable reason they don’t, I’ll kick their asses.

TT: I can’t help but notice you didn’t mention your brother alongside John and Jade.

TT: Are you planning to keep it a secret from him?

TG: its less a secret and more just common fucking sense

TG: im moving across the country in less than two weeks so it wouldnt be worth it

TT: ...

TT: I’m sure you have your reasons for being so reticent about your home life over the past few years, and it’s not my place to comment or even extrapolate on them.

TT: But I’m glad you’re leaving.

TT: You deserve so much more than what you’ve alluded to having.

TG: …

TT: Dave?

TG: yeah

It’s all you can say. The lump in your throat is monumental, and it’s making your thumbs stiff. You watch Rose’s typing notification blink on and off as she types a response, deletes it, pauses, and then starts typing again. You imagine her awkward starts and stops transcribed into morse code: _I am trying to transition from this terrible topic to something better before we both shrivel up and die._ You let her do her thing.

TT: So… how are you planning to confess to Karkat?

TT: You implied you had a plan, and I’m curious.

TG: its not really a plan

TG: just an idea i wanna execute in a few days if i can stop shitting myself long enough to flesh it out

TG: ill keep you posted on if it works or not

TT: So basically, it’s too sappy for you to detail it without embarrassment.

TG: fuck off

TT: No, this *is* Karkat Vantas we’re dealing with, here. Sappy is a good thing.

TT: Your plan better be operationalized for candlelight.

TG: omfg

TT: I don’t know about you, but all of this emotional honesty, while gratifying, has absolutely exhausted me.

TG: yeah same

TG: im fit to catch some emotionally stunted zs now i think

TT: Goodnight, Dave. Good luck with Karkat.

TG: night

TG: good luck with kanaya

TG: not that youre gonna need it since shes head over designer heels for you but whatever

TT: I really hope you’re right.

\-- tentacleTherapist [TT] ceased pestering turntechGodhead [TG] \--

With a sigh, you put your phone down and resettle your head against your pillow. Your neck already feels stiff.

“You’re going to ruin your eyes,” Karkat says, and you flinch. You hadn’t realized he was still awake.

“I seriously doubt one heart-to-heart with Rose is gonna fuck my retinas over, forever.”

“Heart-to-heart? About what?”

“Kanaya, mostly.”

He snorts. “Of course. I don’t know why I even asked, it’s not like they’re physically capable of shutting up about each other. It’s as adorable as it is excruciating.”

Both of you fall quiet, staring up at the ceiling. The pause drags on until you wonder if he’s fallen asleep, but then the mattress squeaks under his weight and his determined face is peering down at you, his eyes flashing iridescent in the darkness.

“Hey,” he says.

“‘Sup?” you say, pinned by his gaze like a butterfly to a foam board.

“I’ve had enough of this convoluted chivalry charade, is what’s up. Quit looking so uncomfortable and get in here,” he says, and lifts the blanket in invitation, in what you so fervently imagined during his molt, in what you’re still gagging for now. He’s turned onto his side to make room for you, his back pressed against the wall. You sit up, your legs tucked underneath you, your palms pressed against your kneecaps and your stomach queasy with wanting. You hesitate there in front of your mattress, kneeling on the carpet, a dedicate in awe at the altar.

“C’mon,” he says. The crinkle of his eyes is impossibly gentle. When you climb underneath the covers, it is less a choice and more an inevitability. You’re drawn into his orbit like a satellite, helplessly attracted to the curve he makes in space-time, to the dip his weight makes in your bed.

You lay on your side next to him, without touching. This close, your every inhale is perfumed with the scent of him: the tang of his sopor patch and underneath, the sleepy musk of his skin, curling against the roof of your mouth like sandalwood. Looking at him makes your eyes prickle, so you squeeze them shut. There’s something soft in his expression, and it’s like looking into the sun.

“Seriously, I can go back to the floor,” you say. It sounds weak, even to you.

 _“Seriously,”_ Karkat says, gritty with sleep, “go to the fuck to sleep, Dave.” Lacking anywhere else to put it, he throws an arm across your shoulders. Warm, firm pressure, compressing the anxiety out of you. It draws you closer to him until your fronts are pressed together. You’re sharing a pillow—you forgot yours on the floor. You couldn’t leave, even if you wanted to, even if you _could_ want to. Surrender is painfully sweet.

“Night, bro,” you say to his shirt.

“Goodnight,” he says, his breath stirring the hair on the top of your head, and you tingle all over. The warmth of him is making you drowsy, and you’re so, so tired. You’ve been tired for a long time now, before his molt, before his arrival on Earth, before you even met him, and you gave up on rest—real, meaningful rest—years ago, ever since your first trek up to the rooftop. But you’re safe here, enveloped in Karkat and the dark, and you let his breathing wash over you like the tide until he submerges you in sleep, too. You don’t dream.

You wake up ten hours later, sweaty, Karkat’s shirt in your mouth and the sheets a tangled, impotent mess around your ankles. Clutching you close, his arm is still draped over you, his other hand wedged inexplicably under your side to cup the small of your back. You drink in his sleeping face: smashed against the pillow, his snoring mouth open wide enough to showcase both rows of his teeth. Every so often, he stirs in his sleep, dispersing any unsettling comparisons to his molt, and your heart swells enough to hurt.

You let yourself linger in bed, savoring the warmth of him. No strife note pins itself to your door. Somewhere outside your open window, a crow caws, but there’s nothing urgent about it. You contemplate your plan. Karkat’s fingers twitch against the curve of your spine in perfect time with his eyelids as you finalize a list of things to gather over the next two days. Blankets, pillows, snacks, a thermos. Candles.

You smile into his shirt and slip out of his arms to go shower. For once, the distance doesn’t feel like a loss at all.

***

For the next two days, you and Karkat, still recovering and adjusting to the ordeal that was his molt, keep your outings scarce. The two of you venture outside once to buy moving boxes and several times to acquire food; the rest of the time you pass puttering around the apartment, from which Bro is conspicuously absent. You watch with amusement as Karkat trains himself, with varying degrees of success, to duck underneath doorways. You start packing everything worth taking to Washington in boxes, and reserve the moving truck you are going to drive across the country with in two weeks. You show him how to scratch a record, also with varying degrees of success, and finish watching all of the troll films he brought.

You practice your confession during your showers. Under your breath, you mumble admonitions of affection, tender and candid enough to make your skin buzz. Sometimes your words stick to the roof of your mouth; sometimes you mouth yourself into anxious, infuriatingly vague circles. You rehash, rehearse, and revise your vocalization of feelings for him until your head spins and your fingers prune. Your words drip off your lips, slide past your feet, and disappear down the drain alongside your shampoo, but your resolve to confess and to do it properly remains.

The next two nights, his ‘coon is still filtering out his baby skin. Both nights, he invites you to share the bed and both nights, you accept. On the second night, you forgo the spectacle of making yourself a bed on the floor. Instead, you flick off the lights with jittery fingers and climb in next to him.

He drapes an arm over you without comment. When you look at him, his eyes are closed. Right before you fall asleep, you entertain the thought of kissing him, and you taste tap water.

***

“A meteor shower?” Karkat echoes, the next afternoon.

“Yeah, a meteor shower,” you say again. “Like, shooting stars. There’s supposed to be a metric fuckton tonight.” Your heart is a fist, tenderizing your insides. “Figured we could drive the truck outta the city and stargaze like we’re in a mediocre coming-of-age novel.” And a little more than that, too. You woke up early to load everything into the back of the truck. You rehearsed in the shower earlier, one last time. Bro has been gone for days. Tonight is the night.

You’re exhilarated. You’re petrified. Your palms haven’t stopped sweating since you woke up. If you don’t make this happen, you are never going to forgive yourself.

Some of that intensity must manifest in your face, because he squints at you. “Sure, Dave,” he says. Slowly, skeptically.

You smile as bright as you can while your guts are curdling with anxiety, which isn’t very bright. Mostly, it’s just watery. Karkat raises an eyebrow, which you don’t acknowledge.

“It’ll be worth it, bro, I swear,” you say, and you hope it will be.

You really, really hope it will be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 


End file.
